


Swallow The Key

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Original Character(s), Pining, Pre-Slash, Prison, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock will incredibly, almost certainly, quite literally drive John Watson mad one day. John just doesn't know when. But when they both have to go undercover in a prison, of all places, he revises that thought and thinks maybe, just maybe, he's already quite possibly insane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31746903#t31746903) on the meme- Sherlock and John go undercover as prison inmates. Naturally, for a case. This of course brings about John Watson BAMF.
> 
> It's getting so bloody long I thought I'd post it up here! And I quite like AO3 so yeah. ^^ Still in going but I am wrapping it up soon! Bear with me! <3

**Swallow the key**

John blinks.

He isn’t sure- wait did he- No, he’s almost certain he did-

No. Nope. No, no, no- Sherlock is pissing around. Having him on. There’s no way-

No.

He’s not serious.

“You’re not serious are you?” John has to ask. He doesn’t know what else to do.

However by lack of acknowledgement on Sherlock’s part, John knows he’s serious. Sherlock barely looks up and merely grunts from his position in the living room, glaring down at the file staring at him conspicuously from the coffee table. John has the sudden urge to grab the man by the scruff of his neck and kick him out of one of the windows.

But that would be messy. And illegal.

But mostly messy. And John doesn’t want to bother the poor bugger who would be clearing the road of Sherlock debris.

So instead, he opts for speaking again. It is less perilous than murder but infinitely more frustrating. Whoever said John Watson had the patience of a saint was a fucking liar.

“Sherlock.” It’s a statement, a command, an order. He needs to know if he’s being serious or not. John needs to know whether it’s worth going to his room, grabbing the gun he keeps in the bottom drawer underneath his socks, and shooting himself in the head or if it’ll be a disastrous waste of time.

“Hmm?” Sherlock responds, breaking eye contact with the folder to scoop it up and flick nonchalantly through it. John’s patience is thinning rapidly. It’s so thin, it’s barely there-

No. Correction: John’s patience is not there.

“Sherlock will you bloody answer me?!”

The man sighs and huffs as if he has been disturbed for less than important reasons. Said reasons would of course be those not wholly about Sherlock.

“What now?” Sherlock asks, shooting John a deadpanned look. John bristles.

“Are you being serious?”

He can’t be. They’re not seriously going to go to prison are they? For a case? For Mycroft’s case? Mycroft! Mycroft bloody Holmes. The brother of Sherlock fucking Holmes.

No way. Sherlock hates Mycroft. He wouldn’t-

The thought however dies a painful death as Sherlock interrupts it.

“Of course I’m serious John? Why wouldn’t I be?”

John blinks.

“What?” he asks softly because he doesn’t know what else to do. Sherlock regards him coolly, a soft, withering, pitying look in his grey eyes that would have John’s blood boiling if he could remember how to feel anything other than pure numbness.

“I can see you’re taking this hard. Hm. Well you’ll get over it soon enough. Anyway go book a few days off from work. Or weeks.” Sherlock turns away from John and continues to idly flick through the file Mycroft left for him. “I can’t determine how long we’ll be there.”

And with that, John is dismissed.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks. _I’m going to prison_. It’s the first thought to enter his mind.

The second thought is- _I’m going to kill Mycroft_. To which he then spends another millisecond mulling over how to accomplish such a thing.

The final thought to enter his head as he leaves the living room in a daze is- _It could be worse._ Which is surprisingly optimistic for him for reasons John doesn’t quite grasp yet. Living with Sherlock, he’s developed a strangely high tolerance to peculiarity. There’s no other way to explain it.

As John leaves, he misses the sight of Sherlock’s eyes diverting up toward him and an ever so small flick of the lips that could have been a smirk.

But no one will ever know.

****


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our reluctant hero John Watson is reluctant.

It’s odd, in a way. In some freakishly, surreal sense, life has suddenly crept onto John and bit him in the arse. Ask him a couple of years ago if he would have ever thought he’d end up in prison, he would have laughed and said no.

Because that’s just John. He’s a good man, a doctor, a soldier. He’s worked for the country- he helps people.

He saves lives.

He saves people’s sanity as well by becoming Sherlock’s flatmate/colleague/friend/babysitter. _Your choice._

John Watson is a good man. He knows it. Yes he’s guilty of the odd sin here and there. And yes, he has killed a man, although arguably, it was in self defence and it would be classed as manslaughter.

The arse also had it coming.

But he never did it for spite- for a bad intention.

John Watson is a good man. A _good_ man.

 _(He could be better)_

But he’s a good man.

He shouldn’t be in prison.

“Can’t Mycroft just pull some strings or something?” John wearily asks on the night before they’re to leave the flat. Sherlock just shrugs noncommittally and John can’t help but feel his heart flutter somewhat in pain.

He’s not frightened. He’s seen far worse than what any prison could show him. He’s seen grown men blow each other to bits with the weapons other men had built- purely for the simple task of killing. He’s seen death up close, shook hands with it and bought it a beer. He’s been close enough to kiss it.

Prison life should be fairly straightforward. Keep your head down and follow the rules. And if something crops up- fight.

But knowing this doesn’t make the thought any less unnerving. He’s going to prison- _I’m going to jail. Jail. Jail, jail, jail. I’m going to be locked up. Fuck-_

It is any man’s worst nightmare.

“Sherlock?” John tries again, watching him from his seat in his armchair. _What if I never see this chair again?_ The thought frightens him and he sinks further into it, willing his body to melt away and completely disappear. He wants to sit in the chair for as much as he can before tomorrow.

“What?”

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, hoping to god Sherlock can decipher it as- _fuck you, I can’t believe you’re making me do this, why the hell am I doing this, I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it-Bloodybuggershitfuck. I’m going to jail._

And unsurprisingly, Sherlock does.

“There’s no need to panic John.”

“Panic?” John repeats incredulously. “Who said anything about panicking? I’m not panicking- Are you panicking?” He’s suddenly aware of the fact that his voice has risen a couple of notches and his hands are gripping the armrests tightly. Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not panicking,” he responds coolly. John shoots him a weak smile but it means nothing.

“Good. Then neither of us is panicking. Perfect. It’s perfect- fine even. Everything’s fine.”

Everything is not fine however. And if John calms himself enough to block out the turbulence of panic welling within him, he’d be able to see that perhaps there was nothing to panic about in the first place. After all, he’s seen and done far worse than spend the night in a dingy cell. He’s slept in freezing deserts, held the bleeding stump of an arm of a wounded comrade, accidently bit the leg off a camel spider and survived living with Sherlock Holmes. What is prison? It is nothing John Watson cannot handle.

Things however, are never as simple as they seem.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock starts, his eyes closed as he lounges back onto the sofa, fingers steeped in front of his chin. “-is incredibly lazy and wants me to do his dirty work for him.”

“Hmm?” John finally snaps himself out of his spiralling train of thought long enough to register the last of Sherlock’s words. “What? Can’t he....I mean can’t he get someone else to do it? The undercover work?” A pink tongue darts forward to swipe over dry lips in nervous agitation.

“No.”

There’s a moment of silence and it thickens like smog, floating through the air until John can metaphorically swipe it away. “No?” he repeats.

Sherlock is irritated. It’s easy to tell with the man, he rarely hides the fact that he is angry.

“Why is this so hard for you to comprehend? You understand everything else!” The man cracks an eye to glare at John from his position on the sofa.

John bristles. “Yeah well I wasn’t going to prison then was I?”

“Look, Mycroft can’t have anyone else do this. It’s too big,” Sherlock sighs exasperatedly as he finally begins to explain this whole ordeal. “Embezzlement and fraud is far too sensitive for him to even try to involve himself directly. Especially as it involves one of his colleagues.”

John blinks for a moment and thinks over this and what Mycroft has quickly explained yesterday. “Right,” he starts. “So basically one of the guys he works for is....”

“Embezzling stolen money.”

“Ok. And....the guy it’s going through is in-”

Sherlock sits up, swinging his legs over and placing his elbows on his knees as he regards John with bored eyes. “In Wandsworth prison.”

“So why are we doing this?” John demands in agitation. “Can’t he use one of his lackeys? Come on, how many people does he have at his bloody disposal Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighs angrily. “You’re not understanding! It’s bigger than that- It isn’t some petty criminal or the sort. It’s actually the government- someone with power. Mycroft’s been asked to stop this and he’s requested our help.”

John rubs his forehead, unable to fully grasp the facts. It’s simple really. Go to prison, find out something (John still isn’t sure what, but he’s not going to say anything) come home and get Mycroft to sort it out. That’s it.

He still can’t understand one thing though-

“Alright, but why did _you_ say _yes_?”

Sherlock hates Mycroft. There’s definitely something amiss here.

The man merely shrugs and flops back onto the sofa, sprawling languidly like a cat.

“Call it a favour,” he replies with a lazy wave of the fingers. The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look at John as he says this, hiding behind the shaded view of his lids. John’s blood boils but he keeps calm.

Somehow.

“A favour...”

It’s not even a question. John mutters it to himself, hoping for once that the world can sort itself out without his help. Apparently not.

“Hmm. Yes we’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Right.”

There’s another lapse of silence- uncomfortable and stretching and it itches beneath John’s skin. He squirms slightly, thinking over anything that could break it.

“Wait,” he starts, a thought striking him. “Wandsworth prison?” From what he knows, which isn’t much arguably, said prison wasn’t a likely candidate to contain someone embezzling large amounts of money. A crime that big would put him somewhere else- Belmarsh even. He vaguely remembers something Lestrade once mentioned about it.

John’s knowledge on prison itself isn’t much, which would be comforting to the average non-criminal, but he knows enough to work his way through life and with Sherlock by his side.

They shouldn’t be in Wandsworth.

“Why Wandsworth?”

Sherlock makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “It’s a Cat B prison. Enough for Mr. Johnson-”

“The guy we’re after?” He just wants to make sure.

“Yes. He’s inside for a different crime- organised crime, drug trafficking. But it’s small- nothing big enough for a high security prison.”

“Right.” And that’s it. Silence once again descends over them both. John, finally unable to take it, rises from his seat and moves to leave the room.

He wants a shower- _It might be my last one on my own._

He wants his bed- _It might be the last time I see it._

He wants a wank- _Fuck! What if someone jumps me inside?_

He tries to ignore the scathing thoughts as he treks slowly to his room and collapses on his bed, his mind spiralling out of control. He’s dizzy, lightheaded and giddy. He wants to laugh and/or scream. But it doesn’t matter- they’re both the same. Sort of. In a way. The feeling is nothing new.

And as he lies there, listening to his palpitating heartbeat run a marathon, he is unaware that downstairs at that very moment, Sherlock Holmes is smirking to himself. A soft smirk- one that would have John Watson sweating bullets if he saw it.

It’s a pity he didn’t.

****


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which flatmates become cellmates.

There’s something inexorably wrong with the universe. John has decided that this will be the catchphrase for his life.

If it isn’t true, then he wouldn’t be standing in front of the prison he was going to be acquainted with very, very soon. His fingers tremble slightly as he gazes up at the building. It is old, an aged, bleak building that seems to glare down at him from its towering heights. Its framework, every brick, every piece seems to radiate some sort of morbid history that John does not like. It seeps into his skin, rendering him cold with every second he watches it.

He doesn’t know why- it is an odd sensation standing there, knowing full well that soon enough you were going to be inside with the very people you didn’t belong with. It is an even odder sensation having a building completely strip you naked, ripping your skin off and laying bare everything you have done.

John has never felt so naked in his life.

He isn’t guilty- he’s done nothing wrong whatsoever. He doesn’t belong here. Not with the thieves and rapists and druggies. Not with the murderers.

 _Bloody hell._

John licks his lips nervously, a strange twitch of agitation he does whenever he feels on the spot. It’s uncomfortable standing there and with every second that slips by, John feels himself edging closer and closer to turning on his heel and running as fast as he can away from the-

The-

The evilcoldbrutalfuckingscarylooking building.

 _What a hyperbole!_

 _You know it’s true though._

There’s a sudden presence beside him and he turns to see Sherlock staring ahead toward the building, seemingly deciphering all its secrets with one look. He is close; his arm pressed against John’s shoulder and the small contact is enough to calm the fluttering John can feel in his chest. The cold ice forming within his veins pauses momentarily, soothing its frigid rampage long enough to allow John to breathe.

“Calm down,” Sherlock mutters quietly, loud enough for John to hear but quiet enough to be brushed away as nothing if anyone were to walk by and overhear. “You’ve seen worse.”

John snorts. “Tell me about it. You still haven’t gotten rid of that thing living in our fridge.”

Sherlock looks affronted at this, but it doesn’t stop the flash of mirth John glimpses in his eyes. “I can assure you, it’s a much needed experiment-”

“Don’t bother explaining it to me,” John cuts in, smiling to himself. “You know I won’t care.”

He’s not looking but he can swear he can feel Sherlock’s smile. It’s comforting- this momentary scene of familiarity. It’s better than nothing.

“Remind me again why I’m doing this.” It’s odd to think John hasn’t considered refusing Sherlock with this request. The idea of leaving the man on his own with such a task, with or without Mycroft’s help was so irrefutably sickening that even John’s unconscious mind didn’t want to consider the possibility of fleeing.

Sometimes though, it’s nice to know what you’re doing.

However John feels like he’s doing nothing but stumbling blind into the lion’s den.

But he has Sherlock by his side, he mustn’t forget that. It has to count for something doesn’t it?

“Because,” Sherlock replies soundly, stepping ahead toward the building. “I know no better person for the job than you.”

And John can do nothing but follow.

****

John likes to think he’s prepared for everything- for what life and seemingly Sherlock’s spontaneous moods throw his way. He’s an organised man- tidy and neat. Albeit, time in the army had aided such qualities, nonetheless John’s always been one for preparation- if not physically, then mentally.

However, no matter how hard he tries, running the facts over in his mind again and again until they make some breadth of sense, he cannot quite grasp the situation at hand.

At night, lying in his bed and blinking lazily at the ceiling, he thinks about everything. He thinks about himself, the army, what prison would be like (despite it being only a case, John can’t help but feel this is some sort of ironic twist of fate) and of course, Sherlock.

 _Would Sherlock be alright inside? Can he cope on his own? What if something happens? What if he gets himself into trouble?_

The latter question bothered him immensely throughout the night and bothers him now as a guard escorts him through a corridor. John is clad in dark blue jeans and a ratty plain shirt and it surprises him that there isn’t another form of dress. But he’s not complaining- at least he can try to grasp some sense of normality with it.

Although speaking literally, normality is, no doubt, scarce in such a place.

The prison is larger than he imagined, with spanning corridors and rows of cells that continue into infinity. It’s noisy-

No. Not noisy- He can do better than that.

It’s _alive._

The walls seem to be thrumming, echoing the conversations, yells and screams of men. It thumps in his ears loudly, a painful buzzing of white noise that has his skin crawling with discomfort. Eyes stare at him as he walks forward, glaring, peering, leering and it’s unnerving. He doesn’t flinch though. Nor does he shrink away.

John merely walks along.

Above him, he can just about glimpse a security camera twisting around the hall slowly. And John wishes nothing more than for it to be Mycroft. Any other day, meddlesome, government working, umbrella wielding, brothers of your flatmates can fuck right off if they think they can get away with keeping you under surveillance for most of the time- even without your knowledge and, if it truly mattered (which it doesn’t, sadly), your consent.

However now, John will give anything to feel Mycroft’s ever persistent eyes. Then maybe he’d know he was there. And the thought that John could possibly punch the man right in the face if he got close enough was more comfort than he could ask for. It was, after all, his fault they were here.

He misses Sherlock as well.

They had been forced to part upon entering and John had not seen him for hours. _Where is Sherlock?_

John is able to keep stoic, blank even, as he is directed and stopped in front of his cell. There are people watching him, they’re steely eyes raping his back with their ravenous leers as he gazes at his cell. He ignores them though. They’re unimportant.

“You’re cell Watson,” the guard comments, his voice sharp. John glances at it, inwardly smirking at the number printed.

22100

 _Huh_ , he thinks. _This has to be irony. Who else would be that catty?_

It’s a possibility that shrinks in probability as he steps inside, the door behind him swinging shut with a loud bang, leaving him staring directly into the ice blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes. _Or it could just be him._

Sherlock grins, a wolfish, toothy grin that has John’s heart flipping in happiness at the sight of it and twisting in irritation at the fact that Sherlock still has the ability to surprise him like this.

 _Where the fuck have you been do you know how worried sick I was of course you don’t you’re bloody Sherlock Holmes I can take care of myself you said- like fuck you can you lanky tosser-_

“Hello _roomie,_ ” Sherlock greets, his eyes narrowing playfully as John’s erratic train of thought is promptly cut off. And only Sherlock could make something seemingly innocent sound so...wrong.

John sighs inwardly. It was going to be a long day.

****


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Watson creates a metaphor.

“You’re a complete arse.”

“Really?”

“Yep,” John affirms. “Just thought I’d let you know. I wouldn’t want one of us getting killed in here and the other not knowing. Because that would be just selfish of me.” He’s rambling. He’s quite aware of it but for some reason, he can’t stop the verbal diarrhoea.

“You’re rambling.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow but keeps his attention affixed on some point outside of the barred window. John’s grateful they have a window, despite it being tiny and barred. To some extent, having it is pointless- you can’t open it, you can’t escape from it and the glass is most likely enforced so it’s unbreakable. It’s useless- the complete epitome of what a window should not be.

But the mere fact that it’s there is somewhat comforting to John.

“Yes I know,” he snaps in irritation. “You got a problem with that?” Sherlock doesn’t answer. “No? Good, then shut it.”

Although this accomplishes little. John sighs heavily and collapses on the bottom bed of the flimsy bunk they will now share. His head is in his hands as he tries desperately to comprehend the situation. But hell, he really should have known Sherlock would one way or the other end him in this exact position.

“Shit,” he sighs. “Bloody hell. I can’t believe this. I’m in prison.”

“Yes John, we’ve established that,” Sherlock says, exasperated. He turns away from the window and raises and eyebrow at John. “Get up, you’re on my bed.”

John bristles. “It’s not your bed!”

“Yes it is, I want the bottom bunk,” Sherlock states as matter-of-factly. “Men think foolishly that the top bunk will accentuate their dominance and masculinity.”

John sighs in defeat. “And that’s not true is it?” It’s probably just some bollocks Sherlock has made up but John hasn’t the energy to argue.

Sherlock grins in reply and spreads out onto the bed when John moves, eyeing the other carefully. He is also wearing blue jeans and an old shirt, but for some odd reason, it looks perfectly normal on the man. John pretends he is not jealous at all and slinks away to the corner of the small cell, leaning against the wall.

“How on earth are we even sharing a cell?” John asks, the thought striking him all of a sudden. “Isn’t it chosen at random?”

Sherlock merely smiles, his eyes closed and it’s infuriating to see him so calm in such a position. John realises then that perhaps he doesn’t want to know after all. No doubt it was Mycroft’s influence.

John then wonders how much of this is actually in his control. None really. He’s walking blind after Sherlock. Like he always does.

 _Bloody hell_ , he thinks, inwardly shaking his head. _What a mess._

He purses his lips and looks up, expecting to see Sherlock deep in thought as usual, his hands steeped in front of him. Instead however, the man’s eyes are firmly affixed upon him, pale eyes boring deep within him. The look makes John’s skin prickle pleasantly and it would be a lie to say it hasn’t happened before. But whatever this attraction was, sizzling between the two, on John’s part, was promptly stuffed away into a box and pushed into the corner of his mind, labelled “do not touch. Ever. Never, ever, ever. Don’t even go there mate.”

Being attracted to Sherlock is both immensely exhilarating and painful. It’s like falling- the adrenaline rush hits you squarely in the chest, too brilliant and worthwhile to let go but too painful and draining to keep forever.

Which was why it now lay untouched in a box in John’s mind.

“What?” he finally asks, slightly unnerved.

Sherlock blinks slowly.

A second drifts past with the echo of a heartbeat.

“Nothing,” Sherlock murmurs softly and closes his eyes.

John doesn’t ask what happened. He merely blinks in confusion and tries to will the blush in his cheeks away.

That night however, lying on his bunk and staring aimlessly at the ceiling, he can’t help but imagine Sherlock’s eyes on him again. In his mind, he is opening the box, just taking a peek.

In his sleep he doesn’t cry out in fear at a nightmare. On the contrary, he moans softly as he unconsciously ruts against the mattress.

He doesn’t know it, but Sherlock’s eyes aren’t closed. He’s not even asleep.

And as John comes in his sleep, still trapped within the confines of his dream, Sherlock smiles to himself and finally allows himself to drift off.

****


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which porridge is firmly crossed off our hero's shopping list.

John can swear on his life that the slop on his plate, known suspiciously as porridge, is moving. He scoops it up with his spoon and watches in rapt fascination as it slops unceremoniously off the utensil and onto the dish.

He turns toward Sherlock who is staring offhandedly toward the far corner of the food hall. He’s thinking- John can tell. The dials and cogs and whatever other devices in his mind are twirling, buzzing and beeping as it processes information.

“Found him yet?” John murmurs quietly, idly swirling his spoon in the grey muck on his plate. It’s not porridge, yet...

 _Best not to think about it._

“Of course I have.”

John raises his head in surprise. Of course, he really should have seen it coming though. “You have? When?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Yesterday.”

“Yesterday?!” John exclaims before checking himself quickly and lowering his voice to a strained hiss. “Yesterday?”

“Yes John yesterday. Keep up please.”

“We got here yesterday!”

Sherlock ignores this and squints ever so slightly, frowning in the direction of the corner before quickly diverting his gaze to John. “He’s there,” he whispers impatiently. John’s eyes widen.

“There? What right there?” He turns to look but Sherlock reaches beneath the table and squeezes his knee hard in warning. They can’t blow their cover now.

“There,” Sherlock affirms, the infamous cat like grin etching onto his face. John’s eyebrows rise into his hairline and he whistles lowly.

“That was quick.” It was an understatement really. “So what now? We can’t go after him in here.”

The question is ignored in favour of Sherlock humming approvingly, making a quick scan of the vicinity with his pale eyes. They’re as sharp as ever, icicles glazing over in thought, like frost crawling on windows. John can’t tell what is going through Sherlock’s head; it’s a feat he doesn’t feel he’s qualified enough for. Although if John bothered to drop a little modesty and take pride in his abilities as Sherlock’s flatmate, friend and colleague, he’d know that Sherlock is not merely thinking-

He is planning.

John glances through the corner of his eye to the end of the large room. There is a table surrounded by men, all jostling and shouting and within the gaggle sits a short, stout man, his face dimpled and red and his eyes as hard and black as nails. John knows then that this is their man.

Although, surprisingly, he isn’t impressed. He expected a little more finesse, a bit of flare perhaps. But he’s learnt to work with what he gets. Either way, they’ll get him.

John’s eyes flitter away momentarily, afraid of being caught by another’s stare, but land ultimately within a range of gazes. Men are watching him, he notices with a little more than just paranoia. Watching him, sizing him up- he can see it in the way their nostrils flare, their eyes twitching and chests expanding.

They think they can take this man on, this short, hobbit of a man. This deer caught wandering straight into the lion’s den. And the thought, surprisingly, both amuses and frightens John greatly.

He blinks and glances down at the grey creature living on his plate, feeling a thousand eyes crawl into his skin and fester like maggots. Sherlock is tapping his fingers erratically on the table, chewing his lip in thought and John focuses on him- anything to forget the eyes.

“What now Sherlock?” John hisses, praying to whichever deity listening that Sherlock would stop being such a fucking prat and answer him. Sherlock’s eyes land on him, darkening ever so slightly and the look makes John’s stomach swoop uncontrollably. His nerves are tingling, buzzing gently under Sherlock’s gaze and the thought is heady. It’s warm and thick and John wants to roll around in it like a cat, nuzzle up his legs-

He fights desperately to stop the blush creeping into his cheeks.

“Nothing.”

The word slams into John like a wall, propelling him back into reality. Everything suddenly seems to sharpen to a pinpoint, his attention solely focused on the electric feel of Sherlock’s eyes.

“What?” John asks, his eyes widening ever so slightly in confusion.

Sherlock leans in ever so slightly, his hand snaking back down to John’s knee, his palm hot against the worn denim. John’s insides squirm and his breath chokes in his throat.

“Do-” Sherlock starts, punctuating each word sharply and squeezing John’s knee in emphasis. His lips are wet, glistening ever so slightly-

“-Nothing.”

And with that, he turns and leaves, his chair scraping against the concrete floor, screeching as he strides away from John, purpose tucked squarely into his shoulders. John sits there blinking, his knee still burning from Sherlock’s touch and his mind a little more than just addled from the sudden turn of events.

 _What the fuck just happened?_

John frowns, utterly befuddled and turns to face the grey monstrosity staring back up at him. He swirls his spoon into it, dividing and carving a face, two splurges for eyes and a wobbly smile. At least someone _(correction: something)_ was happy to see him.

“Guess it’s just you and me then,” he murmurs into the heel of his palm, feeling a little more than just self piteous.

 _You only did this to yourself. You could have said no_ , the porridge face grins.

 _You make it sound so easy_ , John thinks in reply, giggling inwardly. He can already feel the panic stirring, the hysteria budding.

 _What was he going to do now? Where the hell was Sherlock going? Did he have a plan? What if something happens?_

Although John knows that if something were to happen, he would be able to handle it. He was a soldier, still is if you put everything into perspective. Everyday seems like a battle, if not against whatever criminal Sherlock deems worthy to pit against, then against the man’s annoying habits. And if not against the man’s atrocious demands for more body parts and tea, then against John’s rapidly losing battle for normality. Every day, every moment, John feels a little less than normal. He isn’t the doctor, the man he was before Afghanistan-

No- before Sherlock.

He’s different. Although he can’t explicitly understand why. On some level, he considers himself normal, sane even.

But to live with Sherlock, to constantly put up with the habits, the chases, the breathtakingly, suffocating gazes, John thinks he would need to be anything less than sane.

Especially to consent to _this._

Prison.

Bloody jail.

His eyes flit up carelessly, an unconscious, forgotten move. He suddenly regrets it however when he meets the eyes of a man some feet away. He cocks his head ever so slightly, eyes flashing before grinning toothily at John.

 _Bloody hell._

John makes not a move, his gaze hardening before looking away, regarding the face on his plate once again. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for though- an answer?

The face says nothing and merely grins up at him.

John mashes it away with his spoon, pretending he can’t feel the eyes burning venomously into his skin.

****


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is aloof and John is confused.

Prison life is decisively harder to comprehend than life in Afghanistan, John finally determines. Although in some sense, you cannot compare the two- one is the army, war, and the other is punishment, rehabilitation.

John knew without a doubt that he had made the right choice enlisting, that he was born to become a doctor and do what he did. He has no regrets, despite being shot in his shoulder and reduced to a painful, crippling mess during the worst of the English weather. He saved lives, he helped his men, his comrades and brothers.

He really, really doesn’t regret it.

Prison however, John finalises, is strange. It makes him feel odd, out of place, alienated. He supposes it happens to the best (or worst) of men who are in here. But it doesn’t stop the suffocating feeling enveloping him and pressing against his throat hard.

He’s a number here, just a name. Watson. That’s it. Not John- nothing.

If you’re here, in prison, it’s a silent but acknowledged consensus that you’ve lost the right to keep your own identity.

And it’s incredibly unsettling for John, a man who, in actual fact, does not belong there.

He works like every other man there, works for a little less than two pound at a time, barely enough to even afford a razor. He keeps away from the guards and away from the other prisoners- he wants no trouble.

However after three days, John finally begins to feel that he’s had enough.

“Any progress?” he mumbles to Sherlock wearily as they make their way through the corridors, on their way back to the cell. He barely sees Sherlock anymore, the man dashing away, chasing some fleeting notion in his head. He’s working, John knows that, but it’s fucking unnerving watching him run every morning, leaving John to stare at the lumpy porridge on his plate.

However there is one thing that prison has put in perspective for John. When he gets home, he’s throwing out the Oats so simple.

“Hmm?” Sherlock mumbles in reply, his ever sharp gaze firmly fixed ahead of him. John grits his teeth but forces himself to stay calm.

“You know,” he murmurs. “Did you... Have you found anything out? About...”

Sherlock makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, a gentle clicking sound that’s strangely unnerving. “Oh. Yes.”

“What?”

Sherlock squints and grimaces slightly at John. “I said yes.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Yes to... progress?” And Sherlock shrugs in reply, nodding quickly.

“Yes, right. That.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

To say John was annoyed would have been a grave and possibly insulting understatement. Either Sherlock was being deliberately ambiguous or he simply did not care for John to know. Which is, in his opinion, a completely wanker-ish thing to do.

John rubs his eyes, trying to keep focused as he all but stomps down the corridor with Sherlock. The man looks perfectly nonchalant, as if little perturbs him in this place. Which is slightly odd considering they’re in jail. John doesn’t ponder too much on that train of thought though, it’s frightening. They’ve been there for a couple of days now, enough to drive any innocent man round the bend. Sherlock doesn’t seem mad though, John notes with no little amount of jealousy. He doesn’t even look unkempt- not a single hair or thread out of place. He is able to appear perfectly sharp and meticulous despite their lack of resources, which is either a bloody miracle or just fucking lucky. There isn’t even a sign of stubble upon his cheeks, no dark gauze over his pale skin.

John doesn’t know how he does it- even he has succumbed to the forces of nature. He scrubs a hand over his cheeks unconsciously, feeling the scratchy hair against the palm of his hand and notes for the fourth time that day that he needs a shave.

They enter a large corridor, spanning wide on either sides. It is littered with men, little blue jeaned ants scrabbling about the place, clambering together in groups. Noise fills the air, a dull monotony of chatter that grates on John’s nerves. He tries hard not to let the other inmates bother him but it’s almost impossible here.

John’s skin prickles slightly as he walks, feeling undoubtedly that someone is watching him. His back stiffens and his fists clench unconsciously, swallowing hard.

“What?” Sherlock asks, frowning ahead of him. John startles but it takes a moment for him to realise that it’s not he who’s being addressed.

“Huh?”

Sherlock is glaring at someone, a large man, more arm than man, when John thinks about it. He grins, yellow teeth glinting and backs away, murmuring in slow, low pitches, “Nuthin.’”

John frowns. What the fuck?

The man’s eyes, small and beady, hidden behind the fleshy folds of his tattooed cheeks are suddenly cast onto him and his skin crawls. Something flashes within them, something ghastly and lecherous and John can’t look for long. He stiffens and quickens his pace, stepping in time with Sherlock who is always a few steps ahead of him, both physically and mentally.

John doesn’t expect the next move. But it is neither his own or Sherlock’s. A hand, thick and sweaty reaches out and seizes his wrist, tugging hard. John’s reflexes are sharp on the best of days, honed and trained scrupulously by the army. And despite the hindrance of his shoulder (and leg when the days are the worst), John likes to think his reflexes are still something to be proud of.

Which is why he is momentarily startled when they fail him, leaving is staring dazedly into the yellowed eyes of another inmate. It’s a different man, no doubt someone in the same crowd as the other though. He’s smirking, grinning toothily at John, his cheeks red and his hand clammy around his wrist.

“’Ello. You’re the new one aint ya?” he grunts, his voice a deep throaty rumble. He turns, gesturing to another and John realises that there isn’t just one staring at him. “It’s ‘em, ain’t it? The new one?”

“Yah I reckon so!”

John recoils and tugs his wrist away, gritting his teeth as his senses finally flood back. “Fuck off,” he growls angrily, moving to turn away. It’s ridiculous, the rate in which his heart is hammering. He feels like a rabbit caught in the treacherous glare of the farmer’s gun, the soft faint clicking of the barrel loading ringing in the back of his mind. He reminds himself quickly that no- he is not, in fact, a rabbit- _as surprising as that is you bloody idiot_ and that the tosser with his hand on John’s wrist hasn’t actually let go yet.

 _We have a problem._

It takes less than a millisecond, perhaps more- John doesn’t take a moment to calculate it- for his arm to rip out of the other’s grasp, Sherlock standing between him and the man, his stare icy. His eyes are flashing and John doesn’t know if it’s because of the cheap florescent overhead light reflecting against them or something deeper, darker glinting within. It’s one of them, perhaps even both, and the thought both makes his chest twist in admiration and apprehension.

Deep in the back of his mind, the box John refuses to acknowledge is thrashing, fighting to break open. He won’t open it though. He can’t...

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and it’s evident he doesn’t need to. The man’s eyes narrow ever so slightly before he backs away, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly and striding away, murmuring under his breath- “Fucking dicks- ain’t worth ‘nuthing” John can’t help but feel a stab of pride however when the man completely disappears from the hall.

They turn away, walking swiftly to the exit and through another corridor, Sherlock’s hands tucked calmly in his jeans pockets and his arm ever so slightly bumping against John’s shoulder. The contact sends jolts of electricity running through John’s arm, small vibrations that tingle gently. He isn’t quite sure what it is, it might have some sort of correlation with his blushing cheeks and thumping heart.

Or it might be the slight twinge in his shoulder from where the man tugged too hard. John brushed aside the memory but couldn’t catch his hand in time from darting to his shoulder, squeezing carefully.

They’ll be approaching their cell soon, only minutes away but the silence between them is overbearing. John wants to ask, he feels the words clog in his throat as they half form, ready to slip out and possibly embarrass him. But he can’t let this slide- something happened there. Sherlock didn’t even have to say anything, not one word, and the guy backed away. Tension thrums quietly, a gentle tugging on John’s nerves and coupled with his increasingly irritable shoulder, John can’t help but feel his resolve crumble.

“What was that?” he finally asks, his expression as calm and stoic as possible. Sherlock hums gently in his throat.

“What was what?” Ah he’s buffering. Something’s definitely up.

Or John’s over thinking this. Perhaps it was nothing, just merely a stint in the moment.

 _But really? Honestly, could it have been nothing?_

“Ah that. You know, back there. What happened?”

Sherlock is silent, quiet as his eyes quickly flit onto John, studying his face in the space of a second. It’s both amazing and terrifying, being picked apart so quickly by a gaze. It’s happened before, these quiet, indefinable moments between them, a moment stretched and shared and so open that it makes John’s throat close up in fear and awe. Awe at Sherlock’s ability to strip his mind naked so quickly and fear that he would say something ridiculous and the moment would vanish completely. It happened the first day they met, standing in their new home, Lestrade and his crew bustling around the living room. And afterward, after they had gotten home, adrenaline buzzing in their veins and the memory of being so close to death imprinted into their minds. Sherlock looked at him, studying him softly and all of a sudden, the noise in John’s head dispersed. The noise, the adrenaline, the ringing of his gun in his ears. It vanished.

 _Poof_. Gone. Just like that.

It was magnificent.

Sherlock looked away and placed his hand on John’s painful shoulder, brushing away his hand and squeezing softly.

“They’ll learn not to touch what’s not theirs,” he quietly mutters, his eyes glinting ever so slightly with something John isn’t sure he can read.

John blinks before nodding. Right ok-

 _Wait. What?_

“What?”

He tries hard to recollect the words said only seconds ago but for some strange reason, he can’t. The words are wiped from his memory, replaced with a distracting buzz and the feel of Sherlock’s fingers, warm on his shoulder. _What did he say?_

Sherlock’s lips quirk ever so slightly and he pulls his hand away.

“Nothing.”

John blinks and turns away, his shoulder calming until the pain is barely there anymore. He can, however, feel the warm pressure of Sherlock’s fingers against it, pressing lightly, imprinted into his skin like tattoos, like scars. He brushed quick fingers over the spot unconsciously, confused and befuddled before coming to a conclusion only John could ever think of.

Maybe it _was_ nothing.

****


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Watson is in more trouble than he'd care to admit.

During the next day or so, John is perfectly content with the thought that he might be able to scrape through prison unscathed. The days prove to be uneventful, nothing short of a calming routine. Perhaps calming is not the best word to describe it though, but John’s always felt that he is better suited to mindless peace and, in Sherlock’s opinion, boredom, than the other will ever be. He need not stand out but merely blend into the background in order to survive prison life. And it does, in a bitterly ironic sense, seem fitting for John.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is keeping himself busy with god knows what. He is probably working, returning back to their cell at odd hours, on times wearing the small, smug smirk that suits him so well and on others, donning nothing but a small, quietly furious frown.

Today he is wearing neither. Or perhaps both. John doesn’t know, he hasn’t seen Sherlock since breakfast. Which is probably for the best as on most occasions, he finds himself biting on his tongue hard as not to question the other. And standing against Sherlock, John knows, is probably not the best option at the moment.

With work over, it hits just past five. John will have nothing better to do then sit in his cell and watch time flit by slowly. Well not time per se, they don’t have a clock in their cell. Nor a telly. Which is rubbish really, because the guys next door have one. He can hear the rustic screech of _Coronation Street_ blaring in the evening and the faint arguments over whether or not they should bother watching _EastEnders_ tonight. The cell to the left of John, his other set of neighbours, have a different way of passing the time as John assumes they’re also lacking a television. It’s the grunts and groans and squeaking of bedsprings that make John twist and attempt to suffocate himself with his pillow. It never works however; he chickens out once the air becomes too thick.

Perhaps if Sherlock is feeling particularly decent and merciful, he’ll smother John for him.

 _No, where’s the fun in that?_

Ah right no. He can’t do that. By technicality, John needs to be alive in order to wrap his hands around Sherlock’s throat and squeeze. Hmm.

He’ll sort something out.

Not today though. John is on his way to his cell, hands tucked in pockets and his mind curiously blank. He’s having a slow day, neither bothered to think nor talk. A lethargic sluggishness has entered his bones, grinding and moulding into them until every movement takes more effort than previously needed. Perhaps it is the lack of sleep adding to it, it mustn’t help. That and the knowledge of being locked up adding to the quiet storm of stress building within him, threatening to explode with a velocity he is afraid if. He needs to let off some steam, to run, to scream. He needs a fight or a good shag.

He can’t have any of them, not yet. And the thought pisses him off more than imaginable.

Because of these thoughts, John doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps, the smirk burning into the back of his neck as he walks on. It’s a moment too late and before he knows it, someone has planted himself directly in front of the man, footsteps halting, and eyes meeting finally.

John’s eyes narrow. _What now?_

The man before him is of average height and slender build, a boyish glint radiating in his dark brown eyes. But the tell tale stress lines creasing into his forehead remove any traces of naivety one might assume he has. He cocks his head and attempts to grin wolfishly, which doesn’t quite do him justice.

“Hey.”

John purses his lips. “What?”

“Nothing.” The grin is irritating.

John steps aside, attempting to push past the man who does, to his credit, move.

“Only that there’s a bit of a rumour goin’ round. Thought I’d check it out, you know?”

“Really?” He’s following John, much to his annoyance. _I’m gonna kill someone. I swear, I really am._

“Oh yeah. They’re callin’ you something.”

John doesn’t allow himself to pause. But he can’t say his curiosity isn’t fascinated. The other can’t seem to _shut up_ though, rambling about something John isn’t even sure about. Who is he anyway?

 _Oh bloody hell..._

“Look,” John snaps, pausing and spinning around. “What the hell do you want?”

The man halts, smiling charmingly. “Only to test a theory.”

And with that, he pulls back his arm and shoots out his fist, attempting, John registers not a moment later, to punch him. However by pure instinct, he sidesteps and grabs the man’s wrist, twisting it inward on itself.

The other winces in pain but grins triumphantly. The oxymoron is compelling if not slightly creepy.

“I knew it!” he cries. “They were saying but come one! Who’d a thought huh?”

John lets go and steps away, frowning in both confusion and frustration. It’s bitterly ironic that of every man inside here, John seems to be the only one attracting this much attention. It’s probably an exaggeration but the thought brings no comfort. “What the fuck are you talking about? You just tried to punch me!”

“Yeah but to see you know?” The man rubs his wrist. “Like, you’ve always got that toff around you-” _Ah that’s Sherlock._ “-and no-one could really tell, well apart from Rick but he’s a crazy prick and no-one really believes a shit that comes from him but yeah! I was right- you know what this means dontcha?”

The man’s becoming increasingly harder to understand when he’s excited, John notes with little more than just exasperation. He merely shakes his head weakly, far too confused to keep track of anything that’s being said.

The other leans forward, his dark brown hair pushed back quickly. “Means Dan owes me his fags. Fuck yes!”

 _What the bloody fuck is he talking about?_

John decides that it’s only fair to ask.

“What the bloody fuck are you talking about?”

“You!” He punches John’s arm. “You’re an army boy! Real dog tag!”

 _What on earth?_

Army boy.

John frowns in befuddlement. How on earth did he know that? Has Sherlock said something? Does someone here know John? The thought panics him slightly, the mere idea enough to make him quake in fear.

“Hold on,” John states. “You punched me... to find out _that_?” The idea is ridiculous and John doesn’t understand how any man could come to such a conclusion. However he didn’t expect Sherlock to deduce as much when they first met either.

This isn’t the same though for some reason. No doubt a rumour must have spread- perhaps John’s attributes and characteristics seemed noticeable to someone. It was the only plausible theory his bewildered mind could coherently conclude. Whether or not it holds any ground remains to be seen.

“Yeah!” the other nods eagerly.

“Why didn’t you bloody ask?!”

There’s a moment of silence in which John awaits an answer and whoever this guy was, thinks of one to say. He pauses, frowning briefly before shrugging.

“It doesn’t matter.” He’s calmed down and the words are forming better which is a bonus for John’s abused hearing. “What’s a bloke like you doing in here?”

“Excuse me?”

The moment is nothing short of surreal.

“You know,” the other continues and John suddenly realises that he’s having a conversation with someone he doesn’t even know. _I don’t even know his name._ “Inside.”

 _Wait. Why am I here?_

John suddenly panics. Not because he’s being asked why he’s here, but because for the life of him, he doesn’t actually know. Sherlock hadn’t told him what their “offence” was. Theft? Murder?

 _Either way, I’ll bloody end up here when I get my hands on him._ The frustration John feels is endless which is both discouraging and strangely comforting. At least he has something to hold onto this way. He can be angry at Sherlock and not question why, not wonder whether the man is right or wrong and if this really is beneficial for the case. For on some occasions, John finds himself questioning whether there’s any worth in trusting Sherlock at all. But it’s these thoughts that scare him like no other. If he can’t trust Sherlock, then there’s little worth living for. And yes, it may sound dramatic but depressingly, it’s the truth.

Making a mental note to ask Sherlock about their offense when he can, John turns away, smiling briefly at the vague look of awe he could see glinting in the other’s eyes. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

****

John is mildly surprised to find Sherlock already in their cell, lounging languidly on his bed, the top three buttons of his shirt undone and a cigarette balanced precariously between his full lips. His eyes flit up to acknowledge John before trailing back to watch the puffs of smoke he’s releasing after a long drag.

The sight, John finally determines, standing in the middle of their cell, is nothing short of arousing. He gulps, unsure as to why he’s suddenly feeling warm. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen Sherlock before, especially laying sprawled, a delectable impression of a Persian feline. On more than one occasion he’s occupied the sofa, stretching his long limbs on it, with or without John’s presence. It’s nothing new.

The cigarette, however, is.

 _I thought he quit..._

Which is beside the point. Yes he’ll admit, he finds Sherlock attractive, in a purely aesthetic sense, but nothing more. Sherlock is, after all, a very good looking man. But it doesn’t hinder the fact that he has a cigarette-

Which he would of had to buy.

With money.

Which they don’t have.

“Where’d you get the cigarettes from?” John asks, frowning briefly, trying to push all thoughts of Sherlock lounging around, his pink, full lips fleshy and gorgeous around-

 _Box, box, box, think of the box._

“Bought them.”

John pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “So you can buy cigarettes but you can’t get me a bloody razor?” John’s cheeks begin to itch from the mere thought of a shave.

Sherlock pushes his head up, resting on his elbows as he peers at John through hooded lids, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he plucks it out with his long pianist fingers. “Shaving. Dull.”

“It’s not dull!” John is horrified at the very idea. _How dare he?!_

“I prefer the stubble,” Sherlock mummers, taking a long drag of the little cancer stick before blowing out rings rather skilfully.

“On you?”

“On you.”

 _Oh._

John rubs his face self consciously. “Well...”he mutters nervously. “ I don’t like it. A razor would be nice please, seeing as you’re loaded with money.”

 _As fucking usual._

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly as if hearing the thought. “Duly noted.”

“Good.”

John nods and moves to climb onto his bunk, fighting to suppress the burning blush in his cheeks. At least this way he can’t see Sherlock. But it leaves little to almost nothing to do save stare at the ceiling and watch dust particles drift by. He could name them, create a new hobby of such.

 _I’m going mad. Complete and utter bonkers._

The thought, surprisingly, doesn’t frighten him as much as it should though. Living with Sherlock, all the experiments, the severed body appendages in the fridge, the microwave and occasionally the toaster, must have hardened him to the prospect of madness.

John suddenly feels the urge to do nothing but laugh.

Yes perhaps he is going mad. But fuck it, if he is, he might as well go down in style.

“What’re you laughing at?” Sherlock asks, his voice muffled to John’s ears. The giggling dies down and John replies, lazily grinning at the ceiling.

“I’m thinking of getting a prison tattoo.”

A beat. “Oh?”

He can almost imagine Sherlock’s expression, quiet indifference with just a smidgen of amusement written in the frown or the small disapproving smirk that would greet John’s eyes.

John decides to play along. “Yeah. What do you think?”

Sherlock pauses and John can hear the rusty flickering of a lighter as Sherlock, presumably, lights another cigarette. “You’d need to join a gang.” He voice is throaty, husky even and the sound shoots a stab of excitement to the pit of John’s stomach.

“I can join a gang.”

A huff of laughter. “Really?”

John frowns despite the grin adorning his face. “ ‘Course I can! Made for it I am...”

“If you say so,” Sherlock chuckles.

“They already know I was in the army surprisingly. It’d be bloody easy to join a gang at this rate. Get a tattoo of.... I don’t know, a bird or barbed wire or something.”

Sherlock breathes and the unmistakable smell of smoke suddenly fills John’s nostrils, making the back of his throat burn. “Barbed wire’s signifies a lifetime inside,” he states as matter-of-factly.

John frowns. “Ok... an animal- a tiger perhaps.”

“Cats are for theft.”

“Knife then.”

“Rape.”

John leans over his bunk to frown at Sherlock despite the blood rushing to his face. “How do you know all of this?”

Sherlock smiles up at him. “Deduction. Common knowledge really.” And promptly blows a ring of smoke John’s way.

John bats it away and huffs slightly, feigning irritation as he flops back onto his bed. “Killjoy.”

Sherlock merely laughs, a genuine sound that floats up to John’s ears and makes him smile. It’s moments like these, easy, placid moments that makes this worth-while. Being with Sherlock.

It almost makes John forget he’s in prison.

Distantly, basking in the quiet peace that has descended within their cell, the box in John’s mind is rattling, begging to break open.

And for once, John finds he wants it to.

****

 _John opens his eyes, the faint blur clouding his vision fading quickly to snap him into place with speed. He blinks, slightly dazed before realising he’s still in his cell, standing in front of Sherlock’s bed, in front of the man himself._

 _Sherlock is smirking up at him, pale skin glowing slightly with the ethereal blur of John’s vision. John stares wordlessly at him, wanting no more than to fall to his feet and worship the man for his glory, his brilliance._

 _He does not though. He instead watches as Sherlock plucks the cigarette from between his full lips and places it in John’s mouth. It tastes dry, smoky like fire and the faint imprint of Sherlock’s lips touch his, an indirect kiss that’s delicious beyond measure._

 _However before he’s even aware of it, Sherlock is undoing his jeans with careful precision, reaching inside with deft fingers to pull John’s flaccid penis out, holding it loosely within his fingers. John watches in rapt fascination, a coil of pleasure unravelling and bursting through his lower abdomen as Sherlock takes his soft penis and brings it to his mouth with a whimpering moan, suckling on the head gently. His eyes shut in contentment as his hand slowly strokes over the rest, twisting and wanking with his fist._

 _And as John hardens slowly, watching as Sherlock’s tongue licks away the beads of precome dripping at the head, he groans, the noise reverberating throughout him, echoing in his mind._

 _Something feels odd but he isn’t quite sure what...._

 _But all he can do is wrap his hand within Sherlock’s thick curls and pant gently, his cheeks burning at the onslaught of Sherlock’s tongue. It’s so good, a wet, warm heat and he wants more- fuck does he want more._

 _His mind is awash with rambling thoughts, strings of incoherent words and sentences. Fuck oh god Sherlock look at you you’re so brilliant more suck me harder faster, moremoremore god yes yours I’m yours._

 _He wants to say them but he can’t, a flash of white light spouting at the edges of his vision as he watches the other with all the attention in the world. Sherlock’s full lips stretches beautifully around his cock, moaning prettily as if he’d die without it. It’s glorious, and beautiful and just bloody brilliant but Sherlock’s always brilliant isn’t he? He’s just brilliant...._

 _He says nothing though. John can’t speak._

 _Instead he drags on the cigarette and comes._

****

John wakes with a start, gritting his teeth and breathing heavily as his eyes snap open, fighting to brush away the cobwebs of the dream. Soon he begins to relax, staring at the cool, solid ceiling above him to ground him into reality.

 _It was a dream._

A dream. About Sherlock.

Sherlock who was lying bellow him, breathing softly as his mind flutters in sleep.

 _Fuck._

John closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly.

He’s in trouble.

****


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Watson doesn't know what a V.O is.

“What’s wrong?”

Of all questions to ask, it had to be this one. Sherlock never ceases to surprise him.

However to John, it is the most troublesome of questions anyone can ask him. Because ninety-nine percent of the times, despite his avid protests, there will be something wrong with him.

And asking, no doubt, infers that the person knows this.

Which is the last thing John needs.

He shakes his head and swirls his spoon in his porridge, mashing the lumps away with fevered jabs of the utensil. _Bloody porridge._

“Nothing’s wrong,” he replies, shooting Sherlock a quick, reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”

However far it was from the truth remains to be seen though. And if the definition of being fine included having a small, silent mental breakdown over the growing attraction to your flatmate, friend, colleague, whatever else they were, then yes, John was fine.

But it doesn’t.

Pity.

Sherlock’s eyes blaze with quiet thought as he scrutinises John quickly, a small knot in his brow. But thankfully he dismisses it with a noncommittal shrug and turns to continue scanning the hall.

John, a little more than simply relived, watches his porridge with a silent hatred, wanting nothing more than to throw it against the wall. It was mocking him, the bland, rubbery taste a memento of where John was- of what prison was like. And this itself was a token, a demonstration of how far he would go for Sherlock. It was scary knowing how far he would put himself at risk for the other. He would die for Sherlock; John had no reservations or qualms against it.

But why?

Because they were friends?

 _Yes. We’re friends._

 _Wrong._

The word rings loud and clear within John’s foggy mind, an echo of Sherlock’s unusually low voice chiding the telly, yelling at John, furious at Lestrade. It is Sherlock all over, smug and watching from a distance as John slowly unravels his mind like a jumper, holding a stray thread between his lips and plucking away until the whole cloth falls apart into a mess of string. He’ll watch as John drowns in the thread, unable to pull away, tangled, caught up in the mess that is himself.

Only Sherlock really fix this, can untangle John. Even in his mind he can’t be saved without Sherlock. And what does that say about him?

Too much to handle for John’s poor addled mind, he gathers all thoughts concerning Sherlock and their friendship and stores it carefully into the box, eyes firmly screwed shut. He’ll acknowledge it later.

He looks up, gazing listlessly at the small shards of light reflecting against Sherlock’s dark curls for a moment before snapping himself out of his stupor and licking his lips nervously.

“How’s everything going?” he asks quietly as not to be overhead. Sherlock’s eyes flicker in his direction quickly, lighting up with acknowledgment.

“Good,” he nods. “Very good. We’re getting somewhere.”

“You mean you’re getting somewhere,” John replies dead panned and a little annoyed at the fact he’s been left behind for almost all of the time they’ve been there.

“What?” Sherlock frowns.

John shrugs. “You know... I feel like I’ve hardly done anything to help. You haven’t even told me what’s going on.” He sighs and scrubs a rough hand over his face tiredly. He needs a distraction from his thoughts, anything just to stop him thinking. “Just...let me help alright?”

Sherlock clicks his teeth in irritation, watching John’s determined expression with a furrowed brow. “There’s really little you can do.”

John merely shrugs. “At least tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock blinks and looks away. “Fine.” He moves his head, inclining it in a soft nod ahead of him, his eyes swivelling toward John. “Do you see that man over there? Dark hair, brown eyes, star tattooed behind his ear?”

John squints and is a little embarrassed to admit he can’t actually differentiate any of the men from each other. His expression, one assumingly of utter loss, must chime clearly in Sherlock’s mind as the man sighs in exasperation.

“Him.” Accompanied with a quick, inconspicuous point of the finger.

 _Ah right._

“Yep, I see him.”

Sherlock nods. “Good. He’s Johnson’s partner, under the alias for Michel Alden.”

“Alias?” John asks, watching the mark carefully.

“Yes. His actual name is Robert Thompson.”

John pauses for a moment, his eyes sliding toward Sherlock. “Why would he need an alias?” The answer is probably simpler than he thinks.

Sherlock’s lips twitch ever so slightly, a tiny quirking movement that does not go unnoticed by John. “Because he’s dead.”

 _Ok maybe not._

“Right.” John licks his lips. It’s not the first time he’s heard this particular excuse for a twist and will probably, by Sherlock’s standard, not be the last. Thankfully time and the ever so cliché detective crime dramas to grace ITV3 when nothing else is on, has hardened John to the possibility of ghost chasing. “Dead. Ok, I’ll fish- Why’s he dead?”

By now the porridge is forgotten, John idly tapping his spoon against the table in a bid to keep his thoughts distracted, to count the numerous taps in his head whilst listening to Sherlock, which is, he will admit, not an easy task. Distracting his thoughts is easy on most occasions, simply changing the mental subject will suffice. However in this case, thoughts are sticking to John’s mind like bees to honey; he finds himself enamoured with them. Flicks and swirls and jagged pieces of what ifs and possibilities work their way into John’s mind and eat away at him until he isn’t sure what he wants and does not. It’s confusing ad jumbled and he hates it. But he can’t stop them either.

Hopefully this Robert Thompson can provide a better distraction.

Sherlock taps his steeped fingers to his lips once, twice before explaining, his gaze firmly locked ahead of him. Once again John finds himself noticing that Sherlock does not seem to be growing a single sign of stubble on his smooth cheeks. Either the sod is ridiculously lucky or the sod is shaving somehow.

John’s cheeks itch and he rubs them absentmindedly.

“Thompson,” Sherlock starts. “Is the reason we are here. He’s Mycroft’s colleague’s brother.”

“Brother?” John will admit, he didn’t see that one coming.

“Yes brother. Both Thompson and Johnson had been in business well before Wandsworth and before Michael Alden, the alias. Embezzlement, fraud and various drug rings.”

There’s a pause, brief and silent and John feels Sherlock’s gaze steal toward his. And for an electrifying moment, they meet, eyes locked. John feels like a rabbit caught in headlights, his pulse racing to a thick beat, swollen and heady in his throat.

The moment is short lived however and Sherlock breaks the contact.

“Samuel Thompson, whom we know as Mycroft’s colleague and the reason we’re here, knew about this and dabbled in the odd business here and there-”

John frowns. “Wait- How do you know all of this?”

“Contacts.” Another tap to the lips with his fingers. “And without a doubt both Samuel and Robert look alike- the dimpled chin and jaw line.”

Both John and Sherlock squint at their man.

“Anyway,” Sherlock snaps out of his thoughts. “Samuel Thompson earned a rather high government position, albeit under closer scrutiny. His brother, whilst still running the embezzlement establishments, needed to hide yet continue his line of work. Thus they killed him.”

“So Robert Thompson’s dead?”

Sherlock clicks his tongue. “To the records, yes he’s dead.”

“But he’s not really.”

The dark haired man snorts in reply. “John, _please_.”

 _Yes John_ , he thinks. _What did we say about wasting the valuable time of the Great Sherlock Holmes by asking ridiculous questions?_

 _Oh fuck off._

The air shifts slightly, vibrating with energy and John almost senses that breakfast is almost over. It’s been only a few days but already he can feel himself adjusting to familiarity, moulding his mind to follow the routine.

 _God. What if I was stuck here for years?_

The thought is frightening beyond belief, the mere idea of being institutionalised, caged like this plucks at his nerves like crows to a corpse. He wouldn’t be able to take it- not this. Not for years. With the army, at least it was his choice, at least he was doing something, helping people.

Here, he feels like nothing. Merely a number. An I.D.

John lets out a shaky breath, his left hand steeling beneath the table and clutching at his trouser leg hard, fisting the fabric to quell the sudden trembling though his fingers. His head is abuzz with thoughts, what ifs and brief scenarios of growing old in a cell, the static growing and growing until he wants to scream. But he doesn’t understand why. He’s been though worse, that much he’s certain of. He’s seen death, touched it, kissed it almost. How can he slowly fall apart because of this?

“John.” It’s not a question but a statement. A reminder of who he is. It’s his name.

 _Sherlock._

John blinks rapidly for a moment, collecting himself before turning toward Sherlock, who is watching his carefully, his icy irises fixed upon the other.

He feels like he’s burning, having the full gaze of the sun upon him, washing over and inside him. This is what it feels like to have Sherlock’s attention on him, full and unyielding, as if John Watson is something interesting, something worth Sherlock’s attention.

You can understand why John’s addicted to the sensation.

He licks his lips and forces himself to respond. “Yes?”

Sherlock unblinkingly moves slightly, his pale hand reaching quickly and plucking gently at the collar of his shirt, removing what appears to be a speckle of fluff. He rolls it between his thumb and index finger, eyes honing in on it for a moment before flicking it away.

“Lint and ash,” he comments mildly. “Laundry duty?”

John sighs and stabs at his porridge with his spoon. “They won’t let me on the gardening rota.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk up slightly in a brief smile of amusement. “Could be worse. You could be in the furnaces.”

John realises then that this is Sherlock’s half arsed attempt to console him and he smiles lightly, twirling his spoon around as he tries to disregard the sudden whim to kiss him.

“What now?” he quickly asks in an attempt to quell the roaring turbulence in his mind. “About Thompson. What do we do?”

Sherlock turns his gaze away, focusing on a table to the far right of the hall. “Thompson’s done. I just need to find out the sources, Johnson’s contacts, his connections, other than the brother, to Samuel Thompson.”

 _All this trouble_ , John thinks, _for Mycroft._

It’s odd-a complete paradox.

 _Perhaps that’s an exaggeration._

No. No of course it isn’t. To John, it is completely and utterly befuddling to see Sherlock comply with one of Mycroft’s requests. And without, he’s amazed to see, so much as a temper tantrum on Sherlock’s part and excessive bribing and manipulation on Mycroft’s.

Which then begs the question, why on earth would Sherlock acquiescence?

Maybe Mycroft’s blackmailing him. That or Sherlock has some sort of ulterior motive that John is unaware of.

With his brain suddenly thrumming with irritation, John wipes the thoughts away and scrubs a hand over his face wearily.

“Not that I’m being offensive or anything,” he grumbles tiredly. “But can’t Mycroft just have Thompson...” he pauses and gestures his fingers in quotation marks. “ “disappear” if he’s so bloody troublesome?”

The “troublesome” was of course emphasised for maximum sarcastic intent.

One of Sherlock’s bony shoulders nudges in his lazy rendition of a shrug. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

John bristles, his brows knitting ever so slightly. “What?”

The metal legs scrape across the floor as Sherlock rises from his seat, his palm flat again John’s back, just behind, he notes with nothing short of a little elation, his scar. It’s warm, his touch, almost burning through his clothes and into his skin and John wants to both push into it and run as far away as possible.

“Check your box,” Sherlock murmurs, his eyes darting toward the nearest possible exit. He’s distracted, John notes incredulously. Great. Just great.

By box, he of course means John’s prison box that would have contained his letters and other small personal items he would collect over his period of imprisonment if-

One- He had anyone to write to him.

And two- He had any money and means to collect small personal items over his period of imprisonment.

“Why?” He has to ask because really, what else is John Watson supposed to do in the wake of Sherlock Holmes’ thoughts.

“There’s a V.O in it. You can use that. Tell him everything I’ve told you now if he hasn’t already figured it out.”

And with that highly irritatingly cryptic ending, Sherlock leaves quickly n a sweeping gesture, gone before John can even think to ask what the fuck a V.O was.

 _Shit._

****


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Watson finds a friend. Or something close to it.

All is quiet for a moment in his head, in his body. Even the thrum of his heart in his ears, against his palm, is quiet, almost nonexistent.

It’s nothing if not slightly strange.

John sighs, just to remind himself that he’s breathing, that his complete irritation with Sherlock hasn’t suddenly killed him. One day he knows Sherlock will lead to his demise. And as depressingly morbid the thought is, John won’t shake it away. He clings to it, knowing that with it, he can still have an excuse to be by Sherlock’s side.

 _Yes because that certainly isn’t weird._

 _Oh wonderful sarcasm. Piss off._

“Fuck...” he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the onslaught of a headache.

“Hey dog tag!”

“Ah!”

John jumps slightly, his heart climbing into his throat from surprise. He suddenly whips around to see the brown eyed man that cornered him yesterday grinning toothily at him. _Oh bloody hell..._

“Heh,” the other smiles. “Not into the porridge? You’ll get used to it.”

John, his heart still palpitating slightly, turns to regard the lumpy substance before him and grimaces slightly. “Yeah if I like the taste of rotting rubber...”

The other grins, plonking himself next to him, his eyes twinkling with mischief. John, on some level, feels decidedly uncomfortable with him sitting in Sherlock’s seat but says nothing, brushing away the thought quickly.

“Wait-“ John starts, his brows knitting in a frown and his lips tightening. “What did you just call me?”

The man smirks. “Dog tag.”

Dog tag. _What the bloody fuck?_

“Why?” John demands.

“In the army right?” He nods. “Well there you go! Dog tag. Some of the guys already know you as that now anyway.”

John grimaces. “How do they bloody know?!”

The other grins. “I told them.”

 _Great._

He rubs a hand over his face, groaning into his palm tiredly as the words sink in. This is the last thing John needs, a reputation. Although why he has one, he doesn’t quite know nor fully understand. As far as he’s concerned, he’s managed to successfully scrape past a few days in prison without being called upon, attacked, maimed, although arguably they’re the same thing, and finally killed.

Although if John was killed, he’s sure he would know about it.

And Sherlock would most likely have something to say about it considering the fact that John’s already prematurely decided that his death belongs to Sherlock. They’ll kill each other in the end, somehow. Either being blown to smithereens in an unjustified act of heroics or strangling one another if the fridge decides to break down due to the decomposing head inside, which John would have thrown out thus angering Sherlock and prompting the inevitable strangling.

The mind is an infinitely strange place, John decides. Especially considering all this was decided within the first three days of living with Sherlock.

“Thanks for that,” John mutters into his palm. “Really. Just what I need.”

The other, and it pisses John off that he doesn’t even know his name, rolls his eyes skyward as he idly picks at a nail.

“Don’t be such a pussy,” he murmurs. “I suppose many’d kill to be you.”

“And why’s that?” John snaps. “You don’t even know me!”

“Don’t need to really,” he remarks. “It’s just fucking cool. I don’t even know you- don’t think anyone does ‘ere but we all know where you’ve been.”

“How exactly?” It’s bloody confusing trying to string a couple of sentences together with this man but John’s trying his hardest.

“Army right? So probably Afghanistan or Iraq or something like that.” He casts a doggish grin in John’s direction and nods his head to his left. “That and Bill said his cousin’s brother in law is serving now. So you must’ve been out there somewhere right?”

John really doesn’t know what to say other than- “Yeah it’s about right.”

The other smiles, a small quirking motion of his dry lips. “There you go. Fucking cool.” The words linger in the air, an echo of their meaning. John can’t help but feel a rush of something akin to pride shoot through him, his heart flipping giddily at the compliment.

They sit in peace for a moment, merely pleasant company before the thought occurs to John that he should probably ask the other who he is.

“Who are you exactly?” he asks without a trace of bite, which is surprising by his standards.

The man beside him reaches into his pocket and extracts a cigarette, sucking it between his lips before lighting it swiftly. After a puff, his quickly extracted it, squinting slightly and sticking his hand out toward John.

“Stan.”

The palm awaits a handshake and John does not disappoint. He accepts, his grip firm and steady. After all, he had a reputation to uphold.

“John.”

Stan grins. “Great.”

The noise in the hall dies down to a dull monotony of chatter, nothing akin to the loud buzzing not so long ago. It’s nice almost, which is morbidly ironic considering John’s in prison. However at least now he doesn’t feel as lonely as before. He feels less out of his depth.

“So tell me Stan,” he starts, stretching his arms. “Why me?”

It’s a reasonable question.

Stan raises an eyebrow, smirking around the burning cigarette. “You coming on to me?”

John raises an eyebrow. “You wish.”

“Pity. Haven’t had a decent fuck in weeks.”

 _Weeks._ John isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or grimace. One of them that’s for sure. Although he’s not sure why he’s surprised, Stan isn’t exactly the worst looking man he’s ever met. Granted he’s only known the man for ten minutes, it doesn’t change the fact that yes, Stan’s probably been under the enthusiastic eye of some of the men here.

However judging by the nonchalant hum radiating form him in waves, Stan doesn’t seem to be the least bit bothered about anything.

“Poor you,” John remarks, smirking lightly. “But you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stubs his cigarette in the untouched porridge on John’s plate and lights another, puffing quickly. “Dunno. I really don’t. Heard someone talking. People were just asking around. Thought I’d check it out.”

“Does that happen to everyone here?” He’d be quite worried if it didn’t.

Stand merely shrugs. “Yeah I suppose.” He twists to face John, twirling his cigarette lightly between thin fingers. “You can tell with new ones right? Who’s gonna be a cunt and who looks like he can make it out’er here. Then you’ve got those who really surprise you.” He leans forward ever so slightly as if ready to disclose confidential information. Although John doesn’t really know why, it was just a question. “Those who you can’t really tell with. It’s no picnic, I’ll tell you that. You really don’t wanna be here.”

He sighs, a heavy sound rumbling from his tar stricken lungs, and leans back, turning to face the hall again. “Then you’ve got those who look like they don’t belong here.”

John’s hand twitches slightly at this. “Maybe they don’t though.”

“Exactly,” Stan replies. “So with you, everyone just saw someone they’re not really supposed to see here. That and Rick said you even walk like an army guy.” He grins.

“What?” John snorts. “How the hell does that work?”

“All straight and stuff,” Stan grins. “ ‘Ready to report sergeant’ and all that bollocks.”

“Thought you said it was cool?” The flattery was really getting to his head.

“It is.”

It’s hard to repress the grin threatening to bloom across his face and John likes to think he’s done a damn fine job of doing so, scoffing quietly into the butt of his hand and turning to watch the hall, mindful of Stan’s gaze on him. It’s a nice change, to have the awe and attention upon yourself for once, to be idolised by someone because of who you are, what you do. And yes it may be for a slightly odd reason but John’s always been a soldier, ever since that fateful day, waking up and realising this was what he needed to do, he wanted to become a doctor, he wanted to help people. Being a soldier, a doctor, was nothing new to John. It was him.

Thus being awed by Stan, being placed on this pedestal he wasn’t sure he belonged on was nice, uplifting even. And if it inflated his ego a little did it really matter? He was no Sherlock. He couldn’t change the world. A little flattery toward him, a little petting of his ego would make no significant difference in life that it was almost ironic how good it made him feel.

He sighed softly, a small huffing noise of resignation, a weary but not wholly discontent smile upon his face. Stan eyed him.

“What’s up?”

John shook his head, puffing his cheeks out and exhaling slowly, his eyes fixed upon the congealing porridge. Sherlock was still gone, still hunting through god knows what for the end to this mess. And it was irritating to know he hadn’t done much to help, that all he’s doing now is sitting and burning holes of contempt into his breakfast.

“Nothing.” He shoots Stan a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine.”

It should be really. But the stewing mass of uncertainty within John continues to rise. It’s uncomfortable in his own skin sometimes, knowing that just being you is useless in a situation. He wishes he was as smart of quick witted as Sherlock and Mycroft. Perhaps then he wouldn’t be in this position-

Mycroft.

The thought strikes him hard, a low bang of remembrance that leaves him reeling with irritation that he had forgotten the thought. He chances a glance toward the clock, inwardly smacking himself for wasting nearly thirty minutes with Stan when he should have been checking out the V.O in his box-

Wait-

What the hell is a V.O?

John closes his eyes and rubs his temples, groaning lowly in annoyance. Fuck Sherlock and his cryptic ways. _He’s gonna be the death of me I swear it._

“What?”

Stan’s eyes are narrowed in suspicion, eyeing him warily as he puffs quickly on a cigarette, his yellowed fingers tightening around the butt ever so slightly. John blinks at him before rubbing his sore eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s going to have to ask.

God dammit.

“You don’t know what a V.O is do you?” John finally asks quietly, lingering thoughts of throttling Sherlock sparking in the back of his mind. The amused and in John’s opinion, slightly pitying look Stan shoots him is more than enough to remind john that he will always be the idiot of the two between himself and Sherlock.

“A V.O?”

John’s smile is tight. “Yeah.”

Stan cocks and eyebrow and takes a deep drag of his cigarette, grinning around the smoke that filters through his teeth as he tuts at John. “Fuck John how long you been here?”

He shrugs, not knowing what else to do in reply. He will admit though, his name sounds alien upon the other’s lips, as if it didn’t belong there. And it probably didn’t. Not many called him John lately save Sherlock. Thankfully though the gesture was lost upon Stan who tilted his head backward, eyes raised toward the ceiling.

“Visiting order.”

 _Visiting order._

Wait- Visiting what?

“What?”

“Visiting order. You got a visit.”

“Yeah I heard that part,” John snaps quickly. “I’ve got a visit? What’d you mean visit?”

Stan shoots him an exasperated look and drags on his cigarette one last time before stubbing it out once again into John’s breakfast.

“Means someone’s coming to see you.”

John blinked.

Someone was coming to see him.

Someone-

 _Mycroft?_

Mycroft-

 _Crap. Mycroft!_

If John’s rapidly shifting facial expressions weren’t answer enough to Stan’s questioning look, then no doubt the screeching of metal against floor and the quick steps of feet dashing away were, leaving the fellow inmate to sigh to himself and light another cigarette, nothing but John’s forgotten breakfast as company.

The two cigarette butts sticking out of the grey congealing mess were a poor but almost adequate substitute for eyes. Perhaps he’ll smoke enough to make it a smile.

****

Visits are curiously odd things John thinks, shuffling from one foot to the other while he waits behind a burly man. He watches the lights glint from the bald patch at the back of his head, the shine a startling white against the soft brown of his skin. Anything really to keep his thoughts at bay, his nerves from tingling.

Although John doesn’t know specifically why he should be nervous. He’s seeing Mycroft. It’s no one special, no one of great importance.

Just the man who put him here in the first place.

 _Really, that was Sherlock._

Correction- Just the man who put the thought into Sherlock’s head, which consequently led to John being here.

It doesn’t sound any better than before, no matter how many extra words he decided to throw in.

John purses his lips, licking them nervously before straightening his back and trying his hardest not to shuffle. There’s a guard in the corner of the visiting hall, his eyes upon John, black and beady. It’s unnerving and the hairs on the back of his neck shiver in anticipation. But after a moment the man blinks, turning away to talk to another hapless guard.

It’s been an hour since he spoke to Stan and fifty five minutes approximately since discovering the V.O, now known belatedly as a visiting order (which he should probably try and remember), in his prison box. Sherlock was right after all, the sneaky bastard. John would indeed be seeing Mycroft today.

But what to say to him?

Thanks for coming?

How’s life outside?

Fuck you?

It’d probably be one of them, John hoping the former two will make it past his lips before he says anything stupid. And it’s depressing to think he’s already anticipating a biting comment to be made by Mycroft against him for something foolish he’d no doubt say.

Being around both the Holmes brothers has taught him a thing or two about himself-

One being; John Watson is not an idiot.

And two- And although he is not an idiot, he will still never be able to ever comprehend the genius that is Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

But it does not mean they are not complete and utter arses.

The queue is finally moving, picking up speed after a slow start and a shrill buzz fills the air, an alarm of some sort. The doors open and they soon file in, taking their assigned seats quickly and efficiently. John seats himself swiftly, careful not to make eye contact with any other in the room. The visitors haven’t arrived yet, the only company for the moment being half a dozen red faced stricken looking guards, ready to strike of needed, read to strike if not needed.

John’s only been here for a few days but even he knows, there are new laws in prison and the guards enforce them with whatever force and on whatever whim they want to.

“Quiet!” One of them shouts and John fights not to bristle, a sudden silence thickening across the room that is suffocating. Another shrill shriek of the alarm rings off and another set of doors open, visitors filing in, women clasping their hands nervously, skittish and fragile. Men with stiff upper lips and children with innocent confusion in their eyes. It’s depressing to watch yet morbidly fascinating. John finds himself picking these people apart, trying to see who they are to the prisoner, what would bring them here.

Perhaps Sherlock is more of an influence than John originally gave him credit for.

However before he can even begin to answer himself with a scathing thought, footsteps approach accompanied with the complimentary tap-tap of the steel umbrella tip against the lino floor. John looks up, meeting the wide beam of Mycroft Holmes, the man’s eyes unravelling him with one scan.

“Hello John,” he smiles warmly, his hand clasped relaxingly around his umbrella handle and John vaguely wonders why he was allowed to bring it in here with him. Surely it’d be against regulations-

“Mycroft,” he replies coldly, the scathing thoughts he thought had disappeared returning with full throttle. And suddenly he doesn’t mind that the guards have inconspicuously allowed Mycroft to bring his trusted umbrella with him.

At least it gives John something to hit him with.

Not that he ever would though.

John’s far too civil.

Mycroft seats himself opposite to John. “How’s prison?”

Or maybe not.

****


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft does a nice thing.

“Hello to you to Mycroft.” John smiles but nothing about it is genuine. They’re sitting opposite each other, John’s hands clasped tightly in front of him, elbows off the table and his eyes firmly affixed upon the other. He is all the more aware however of the security guards pointedly ignoring both himself and Mycroft, their backs turned to them.

 _I wonder how much he paid them off._

“Come now John,” Mycroft chides, his customary wide beam stretching across his face. “You know me better than that. I would do no such thing.”

Despite knowing both Sherlock and consequently Mycroft for some time now, their deduction abilities, or John likes to think, powers of mind-reading, never ceases to both amaze and frighten the life out of him.

 _Mycroft’s a fucking mind reader,_ he thinks, his expression completely placid. _Fine, if he wants it that way lets test this out. Mycroft I’m having sex dreams about your brother. He sucked my cock yesterday and it was brilliant!_

Mycroft graces him with a pointed stare. “Really John I’m not a mind reader. It’s simple psychology, when picturing something in your mind, your eyes immediately move to the far upper corner.” Mycroft points in demonstration and John bristles. “I would have thought you’d known that, being a doctor and such.”

John resists the urge to poke his tongue out, remaining, with no little amount of restraint, professional. “Is that so? Well then what was I picturing?”

 _Your brother going down on me with those gorgeous, gorgeous lips._

Mycroft smiles. “I have absolutely-”

 _Oh fuck he knows!_

“-no idea.”

 _Oh thank god._

John barely resists the urge to breathe a sigh of relief, swearing hard that he will never conduct another mental experiment of his own again. Especially involving one of the Holmes brothers.

“What do you want Mycroft?” He wearily asks, sniffing slightly. The air between them is tense, pulled taunt like a wire and John wants to break it, snap it to pieces and run. He wants to yell at Mycroft, scream at him for putting him in this position, for never doing his own dirty work, for being related to Sherlock.

The other waves a hand causally, too nonchalant for John’s liking but what can he expect with the man? “I informed Sherlock I would be coming. I assume you have some information to pass on regarding the delicate details if the case?” He idly examines his nails.

John blinks. Ah the case.

He flicks his gaze around the room, checking subtly but scrupulously for anyone watching him. However the guards are still turned away, making a point to bypass his table whenever they can.

“Well,” John starts, watching the security camera for a moment before turning to Mycroft. “It depends on how much you already know.”

“Most. Not everything otherwise Sherlock wouldn’t have needed to partake the case.”

“Yeah,” John remarks, deadpanned. “Thanks for that.”

“Well?”

“Not much.” John scratches his ear slightly. “Something about Mr. Johnson and your Samuel Thompson.”

Mycroft nods. “Right.”

“Hmm. Johnson’s partner here, a Michael Aldan, is actually Thompson’s brother, Robert Thompson.” John licks his lips and nervously casts his eyes around the room once more, his voice lowering slightly. “Who’s actually supposed to be dead.”

Mycroft says nothing but merely gestures a hand for John to continue. The visiting hall is alive with chatter, the men grinning and the women beaming whenever they lose composure momentarily. Occasionally John can spot the odd dark look, the morbid, grey cloud hanging over a man’s head, a visit most likely gone wrong. The atmosphere is a stark contrast to inside. Inside where there seems little to almost no hope hanging in the air. Here, there’s some sense of joy, of happiness buzzing around and John assumes it’s to do with the visits. What else could it be?

He almost wishes, at this point, that someone knows he’s here. Harry or Ms Hudson or even Lestrade. Anyone really, just an acknowledgement that he’s still thought about.

He’s not even a proper prisoner and already he’s starting to think like one.

Mycroft makes a soft, clearing noise in the back of his throat and John suddenly remembers he’s in the presence of someone. There’s an odd glint in Mycroft’s eye, a knowledgeable, sharp flicker of light that has John suddenly inexplicably nervous.

He coughs. “Well I can’t really tell you anymore, you can piece them together right? Sherlock’s gone off to find more out about Johnson, his connections, sources and things...” he trails off rather uselessly, unable to continue the train of thought suddenly kidnapped by Sherlock.

 _Where is Sherlock now?_

It’s a ghastly thought, not knowing where Sherlock is in a place like this. Unable to help, to see if he’s in trouble. Every time the thought captures John he is stricken by a sudden notion of panic, a fleeting burst of morbid imagination-

 _Sherlock cornered by a group of thugs._

 _Hurt somewhere._

 _In trouble with the guards._

Of course John brushes said thoughts away, pinning it on the notion of a very active imagination. Sherlock is fine. John saw him no more than a couple of hours ago. He was fine.

Good.

He was good.

What could happen in that slot of time? A couple of hours. Surely Sherlock can keep himself out of trouble for that long?

John’s half hearted attempt at reassuring himself is lost, his hand trembling slightly against his knee. He fists the fabric of his trousers, stilling himself. It’s a cliché, he knows, a misplaced ego thing but he’d rather cut his own throat than let Mycroft see how badly this was affecting him.

Mycroft’s piecing gaze cuts through John for a moment before retreating with an echoing sigh. John’s never felt so naked in his life.

“Yes, well thank you John. I shall be sure to deal with Mr Thompson promptly.” He twirls his umbrella on the tip with his fingers, watching John carefully. The other nods, his lips thin and his back ramrod straight. John almost feels as if someone had split his back in two, inserting a thin rod into his spine- he can barely move.

There is a moment of brief silence between the two, awkward and thick and it clogged in John’s throat, gluey and gummy and sticky in his mouth. Every words forming on the tip of his tongue is the wrong word, the wrong expression and they promptly die, barely born. And he feels almost but not quiet guilty for aborting the infant thoughts before they can even grow, bloom into scathing and tart remarks toward the man in front of him.

He doesn’t talk, he can’t say the right thing at the moment. Mycroft can tell, a brief but certain look of sympathy crossing his face, the lines around his mouth, his tight warming beam relaxed and calm.

“John,” he starts. “If I may?” It’s a question. But for what, John doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care either.

He’s beyond caring at the moment. All he wants to do is sleep. And eat. Eat something other than grey porridge and dry, stale sandwiches. He wants a proper breakfast.

 _Eggs..._

 _Sausages._

 _Oh god bacon. Bacon,bacon,bacon!_

He wants to dream of Sherlock again, to make sense of whatever it is between them. He wants to place his hand on his shoulder and squeeze, feel Sherlock’s bones beneath his fingers, leave their imprint into his skin. He wants to pull the skin back from his temples with his thumbs and kiss Sherlock’s almond eyes.

 _Fucking hell..._

There was something definitely wrong here.

It takes him a moment to realise that the chair before him is empty. Mycroft is gone.

John blinks, his brows knitting together in a furrowed frown as he looks around, racking his brain and trying to think of when and where Mycroft could have gone. His umbrella is still here, leaning lazily against the chair. If it could, it would be glaring at John for his insolence toward the other. John merely blinks, trying to withhold the urge to stick his tongue out at it. Although he’s never been told, he likes to think it isn’t proper decorum to pick fights with unassuming inanimate objects.

Even if they did have it coming.

However before he can coherently gather his thoughts together, something warm is pushed into his palms, a wet trickle of hot liquid spilling across his fingers.

He stares down at the polystyrene cup, the light utensil weighed down by the contents within, hot brown liquid-

 _Oh god._

 _Is this what I think it is?_

He looks up to see Mycorft beaming at him from his seat, nodding toward the cup.

 _It is. Oh god it is._

Tea.

John can feel his lip trembling ever so slightly as he stares down at the glorious tea. _It’s been so long..._

Although it hasn’t really. John tends to exaggerate when there is a lack of tea and possibly bacon.

“How did you-” he starts futilely, staring in wonder at the splendidly magical man before him. And all of a sudden he can see stars and faeries dancing around Mycroft, this unassuming wizard who brings him _tea_ in prison.

If John wasn’t so ignorantly enamoured with Sherlock, he would have reached across that table, thrown himself in Mycroft’s lap and kissed him.

But as he can’t, his mind settles for creating a scenario in which John is tangoing in the room, clutching the tea to his chest and waving his breakfast spoon around happily.

Whoever said John Watson was a boring, plain, unimaginative creature was as wrong as fuck.

Mycroft merely smiles. “There’s a visitors shop just outside.”

John takes the explanation as it is and brings the cup to his lips, blowing gently, a kissing caress across the surface of the liquid before taking a long deserved sip.

It is ecstasy.

He closes his eyes, relishing the burning rush as the liquid slides down his throat, the tangy sweetness of the sugar sour against the back of his tongue. It is wonderful.

“That-” John sighs. “-Is beautiful.”

“I’m sure it is. You must forgive my lack of quality here, I fear I’ve underestimated the toll of this task on you.”

John took another sip of his tea. “Just because it isn’t made from some rare leaf or something in the depths of India doesn’t mean it’s any less good. It’s better than nothing.”

Mycroft says nothing at this, allowing John a moment to bask in joy with his beverage. However the comfortable quiet around them had to disperse, a burning question itching in the back of John’s throat.

“I’ve got to ask,” he starts, setting the tea down and scratching the back of his neck listlessly. “Why did you ask Sherlock to do this?” He coughs slightly, feeling awkward discussing the powers Mycroft wielded so often. “Surely you could have just-” John clicks his fingers. “Made it go away.”

There is a wonderful moment of clarification between the two, a simple sense of understanding dawning upon them both. Mycroft is always such an aloof figure in John’s life, appearing when either unwanted or desperately needed. The man has eyes on the back of his head, as cliché as the notion is. He seems to see everything and anything and although sometimes it is an unnerving idea, other times John cannot be more thankful that someone in the world cares for Sherlock as much as he does. However towards himself, both Mycroft and John never seemed to have the time nor opportunity to ever reach an mutual understanding, busy running after chaotic mess that was Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft smiles and tilts his head to the side slightly, his gaze resting upon a fidgety, nervous woman beside him, her hands trembling in her lap while she speaks gently to the man opposite her. John follows his gaze, no small amount of sympathy welling for the woman.

“You must know John,” Mycroft starts quietly. “I had no intention of allowing this to happen.”

It was, to say the least, mildly surprising to John.

“Really,” he replied, unable to think of anything sufficient to say.

“Really. Although I had no knowledge on what Sherlock has discovered now, Samuel Thompson’s brother, I’m sure one day it would have become clear. I have neither the power nor specific means to dismiss the man yet. He is bothersome yes, but he’ll fall in good time.”

John frowns, processing the words. “I don’t understand.”

The woman beside them lets out a quiet, choked sob.

Mycroft turns to regard John. “Yes, I’m sure. To put it simply Dr. Watson, I never asked Sherlock to do this. He offered on his own accord.”

A quiet wail is released, a sniffling, wet sound from the sobbing woman. A baby cries in the far corner of the hall and a chair screeches unforgiving against the floor, tipping back into a bothersome crash as someone storms out angrily. John watches the woman beside them, the wet, fat tears rolling down her cheeks dying as they splash against her hands, her lap. It’s a sad sight.

He realises then, the visiting hall is no better than being inside. On some level, he understands with no little amount of anguish, it is worse.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Watson's world comes crashing down.

John leaves the hall feeling numb. Something has snapped within him, a string has been cut. He wanders aimlessly, thoughtlessly, unable to process Mycroft’s revelation with any sure amount of coherency.

 _He offered on his own accord._

It’s like Sherlock to do such a thing. However only if it is in the benefit of the man himself, his needs, means and possibly for some sort of misplaced experiment. Perhaps there is a gap in Sherlock’s knowledge and he wishes to fill it, to complete it. If doing so would require the man needing to spend some time in prison, fine- John can understand his actions.

However in this case, no matter how many times John tries to create an excuse, an elaborate explanation into why Sherlock would do such a thing, he seems to fall short.

Simply because in this case scenario, the only person seeming to be benefitting from anything here is Mycroft.

They haven’t had a case in a while, nothing wholly exciting or heart pumping enough to induce a surge of euphoria and adrenaline. Things are too quiet for comfort. As a result, perhaps Sherlock was bored? The skull could have been silent, the morgue empty, Lestrade without use for a consulting detective. Perhaps Sherlock just needed something to occupy his mind for the time being.

 _Prison? Fucking prison? What the bloody fuck is he playing at?_

And the numbness, the lack of sensation within John has suddenly combusted into fury, a bright spark igniting pure, unfettered anger that rages through him. It covers everything, it burns though his chest like fire, his hands twitching, arms flexing, aching to grab hold of something or someone and throttle them.

It is not an exaggeration, the length and strength of a man’s fury and frustration. John has seen the very worst of it in his life. He has felt the very worst of it in his life, both at the receiving and administering end. He can’t say he’s proud of it but at the time, when pure rage blinds you and nothing is clear save the thin red film coating your vision, nothing is more satisfying then the feel of another’s throat in your grip.

John’s fist clenches tightly, his nails biting harshly into the skin of his palms.

Does he want to hit Sherlock? Possibly.

Will he? Probably not.

He is John after all. John doesn’t hurt Sherlock. How can he? It would be going against the simpering puppy role he has so carefully morphed and fit into.

The bitterness he suddenly chokes on bubbles within him and John can’t tell if it’s the sadness or rage that has made his eyes prickle so. They burn, tightening around the edges and he blinks rapidly to try and stop the onset of moisture appearing. It’s ridiculous. He’s not crying. He won’t. He refuses to subject himself to such emotion over his bastard of a flatmate who thinks it’s perfectly ok to toy with his life like a puppet master.

John runs a hand over his elbows, feeling for the puppet strings.

It’s sad to say however, that John, at this point in time, has absolutely no idea what to do next. Does he confront Sherlock about this? And if he does, what will he say?

 _Thanks for bringing me here you bloody son of a-_

No.

No.

No John will not bring himself to such a level. He can’t. How can he? Perhaps it is best to say nothing at all, to continue with things as they are and see where they go. He trusts Sherlock, has faith in him, he knows there’s a reason for this. A reason for everything and anything that has happened.

However despite how many times he runs this through his head, he cannot bypass the worry, the fear that there will be consequences. What happened when he’s out? Will this all be on his record?

He’s suddenly acutely aware, as he walks down the corridors and makes his way to his cell that he is surrounded by rapists and murderers and paedophiles. The thought is nauseating, the thought that he shouldn’t be here, not with these men.

And Sherlock has put him here.

Is this some sort of divine punishment?

He sighs, brows pinching together as he storms to their cell, feeling his heart race in the anticipation of an oncoming argument. He can already see it- the flippant comment, his temper rising, shouting, Sherlock making a callous comment, John retreating to his bunk, wounded. Such arguments always end the same way, with Sherlock emerging unscathed, the collected, unruffled winner.

The very same winner sitting on his bed as John storms into their cell, ignoring the rather pointed look he receives from a nearby guard, his face hidden slightly from John’s line of vision.

Something is very, very wrong.

Sherlock sits hunched, staring off to the side, the lack of sufficient light in their cell, due to the broken light bulb they must now bunk with, casting a worrying shadow across the man’s face, the dents beneath his cheekbones prominent, his frost glazed eyes watching out the window sullenly. He makes not a move, makes no acknowledgment of John’s approach.

“What’s wrong with you?” John remarks, a trifle more unfeeling than he originally wants.

Sherlock doesn’t respond but merely turns his worn and slightly dismal gaze toward John, who can only stiffen in horror.

The man sports a large purple bruise across his left eye and cheek bone, the garish violet of the contusion swollen and ghastly against Sherlock’s pale skin. The eye was blood shot, swollen but not heavily thank god. His bowed lips, so plum and perfect _(stop it stop it stop it)_ was cut, crusted slightly with dried blood, the slices of skin crimson and puffy.

 _God Sherlock what’s happened to you?_

As if hearing the thought, he rolls his eyes, snorting facetiously.

“You should see the other man.”

A beat passes.

“You’re joking right?” John replies, slightly confounded. “That was a joke.”

Sherlock frowns. “Joking? I don’t joke John.”

“So you’re being serious?”

“Of course I’m being serious,” Sherlock scowls indignantly. In an afterthought, he added- “I broke his arm.”

 _He broke his-_

“You broke his what?!”

“Arm John, keep up.”

John, in a brief moment of bafflement, squeezes the bridge of his nose hard, sighing a much needed breath of frustration. He broke his arm. Sherlock broke another man’s arm.

Not that John doubts it of course. No, Sherlock has just as much strength, possibly even more, than some of the men John knows and saw in action. He could hold his own if the time came, and for that, John was indisputably grateful to whatever deity who granted Sherlock the knowledge of whatever damn karate he could do.

 _I think it was Baritsu._

 _Baritsu isn’t karate you idiot._

 _Isn’t it?_

 _No._

 _Wait. Does it even exist?_

He blinks at Sherlock, a moment passing, the bruise across the man’s face glaring at him angrily. The thought of Sherlock hurt, of in a fight without John’s aid makes him feel queasy, a dizzying moment of vertigo. It was no news to him that Sherlock would willingly walk into the line of fire if it would benefit the case, John knew this. He knew this the moment he met Sherlock, staring in rapt horror at the opposite window Sherlock sat with the murderous cabbie. He himself could not complain though, had no reason nor ground to object to Sherlock’s proceedings other than the fact that he did not want Sherlock dead. John was no saint either. Afghanistan was a choice.

Knowing this though does not stop his heart palpitating wildly, from fear or anger he does not know. He knows that when he crumples to the bed, his breath caught in his throat as he stares at Sherlock beside him, that he’s fucked. That it’s never felt this bad before, this painful. The deep, churning sensation of pure fear, of the thought of Sherlock dead.

He tastes copper in his mouth.

Sherlock blinks at John, his penetrative stare, honed perfectly on John, crawls beneath his skin, worming underneath, scratching unrelentingly beneath the surface. It’s itchy and irritating and persistent and John squirms, feeling his pulse flutter under such scrutiny, like a bird trying to escape the cat’s paws.

“God Sherlock...” he chokes out, the words haggard and weary as they leave his mouth. He runs a hand over his eyes, presses his thumbs to them, the thudding implosions of colour from the pressure against his corneas almost comforting, grounding even. “What is wrong with you?”

Sherlock bristles ever so slightly. John can feel the mattress shift.”Excuse me?”

“Look at you!” John finally snaps, glaring at the other angrily, all the coiled frustration and anger and lust rolling within him, throbbing and churning with such velocity, the implosion was only inevitable. “You’re bruised black and blue! What the bloody hell happened?”

Sherlock turned away, his expression dropping into the cold gloom he held when experiencing such tedium. “The case. Ventured further than I needed to. It doesn’t matter now, it’s done. I know everything I need to know.”

“Well that’s great isn’t it?” John rose from his seat, pacing slightly, his hands nervous, fumbling, gesturing in the air. “The case is solved, everything goes back to normal does it? Did you not think for one second I could have helped?”

Sherlock looks affronted. “You did help!”

“How? Because it doesn’t bloody look like it!”

“You dealt with Mycroft.” Sherlock’s eyes are bland, staring up at John as if this is an obvious fact. Indeed it was, but not what John wanted to hear, who could not hold the damns closed, his frustration finally spilling forth in torrential waves.

“For God sake Sherlock!” He snaps. “Yeah alright, yeah. I dealt with Mycroft. Fine I’ll take that. But do you want to know what he told me?”

 _That you lied to me._

 _That you’re still bloody lying to me._

Is this a game to him? To Sherlock? Playing with John’s life like this? On cold, angry days, the chill of the night air rattling John’s bones, when frustration toward Sherlock won over any admiration he felt for the man, John would question this. Was he not built for a normal, stable life? Granted the man certainly did no favours for himself, choosing a life with Sherlock over his lonely empty flat, a life maybe with a hint more normality in cliché terms opposing to dodging criminals in London with a consulting detective. It was breathtaking, he could not deny that. Breathtaking and heart pumping and so gloriously good, he almost pities everyone else who lead their lives, so monotonous and tedious.

 _Oh god._

 _I’m beginning to sound like him._.

But as much as the thought horrifies him, it does not change what he thinks. That on some level, he’s got the best he could ever possibly want from life. It doesn’t however, stop it from being exasperatingly frustrating.

And oh how it was.

Sherlock narrows his eyes ever so slightly. “What did he tell you?”

John cocks his head. “Oh don’t you know? Well that’s surprising. He told me, Sherlock, that you _offered_ to come here and do this.”

There is a quiet moment of perpetual silence within the tiny room, thick and clogging. It slinks everywhere, heavy like fog, tightening their throats, squeezing to stop sound. John watched Sherlock silently, meets the heavy stare blinking back at him and does not back down. He can’t. He won’t.

“Is it true?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, relenting somewhat and John knows at that moment, it was.

“Oh for the love of-” John starts, throwing his hands up in defeat. “It was you then? You planned this? You brought me here? Not Mycroft!”

Sherlock frowns. “What does it matter if it was Mycroft or not John? What’s important is that I’m here now and the case is solved-”

“You?” John exclaims. “ _You?_ God I should have know it was all about you! Never mind the fact that I’ve been dragged here of all places! Oh as long as your case is done, right Sherlock? Nothing else matters does it? Case, case, case that’s all it ever is!”

Sherlock glares at John, rising to full height to stare down at John, an attempt, if not a slightly futile one as John’s temper boiled over, to intimidate the smaller man. His frosty eyes pierce him, gazing into the other’s, honing like finally chiselled points of class but John would not break. He couldn’t afford to.

“You know my work comes before anything else,” Sherlock hisses, leaning forward, ablaze with fury. “You know that so why are throwing one of your tantrums now of all times? So I did all this, what does it even matter? You agreed to come!”

“You manipulated me into it!”

“I did no such thing!” Sherlock shouts. “You have a mind of your own John, although I’m at a loss to explain why as you never use it!”

“That’s beside the point,” John blurts rather uselessly, choking slightly on his words. Sherlock pulls back, an eyebrow raised dubiously as John’s cheeks flushed pink, embarrassed no doubt by his slightly misplaced outburst. “No that’s not what I meant!” he splutters, pinching his brows together as his body races to try and keep up with the shreds of thought flittering in his mind. He is irritated, frustrated with everything, with Sherlock, with himself for not being able to string one useful sentence together. He can feel the anger and aggravation bubbling within him, a flaring rage ready to boil over, steam with fury and explode. Control is slipping from his grasp with every second he stays there, grazing the striped pads of his fingertips but never fully in reach. He can see it dissolve, feel his strength fade and whatever semblance of reason he holds, pack its bags and leave.

He trembles softly, gentle shivers vibrating under his skin, through his muscles. John realises it belatedly, the dizzying sensation of waking from a dream clinging to the edges of his mind as clouds of black pop in front of his eyes, a blooming haze of static that takes a minute to disperse as the head rush ends, as he’s thrust back to his spot.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, the word tumbling from his lips like something so familiar, so comforting. Sense memory; his lips tingle as his tongue flicks against the roof of his mouth, the vowels so pristine and clear. It’s sharp like the edge of a knife and definite like an ending. He realises then how perfect they fit with the man himself.

Sherlock stares back wordlessly, his curved lips pressed tight, his piercing eyes never losing their crispness. They cut into John quietly, he can feel it. Like the sharp awareness of a paper cut. Stinging and so brutally silent.

“You can’t begin to comprehend what this is doing to me,” John finally chokes, his voice wavering as if dancing precariously above a crack. “Did you even think about it? We’re in prison.”

“Yes John I can see that!” Sherlock snaps, his patience, or lack of, thinning rapidly. But something within John, brewing and festering finally boils over and he cracks.

“No!” he exclaims, a hand darting out and seizing a fistful of Sherlock’s shirt. He’s beyond caring about propriety, about what not to say, about Sherlock. He’s snapped, and it’s a frightful thing. John can barely keep a shred of thought coherent, everything he’s feeling and thinking finally rushing forward.

“That’s just the thing, you can’t see it! _We’re in prison_!” he hisses, his face flushed in anger, fist curling tightly in Sherlock’s shirt. “Prison! This is where paedophiles and-and rapists belong! People who’ve killed someone! Did you ever stop to think how I might feel about that? Hmm? Or did you just forget everything I’ve done- people _I’ve killed_ Sherlock, in Afghanistan! Or-or what about the cabbie? Just shot him dead, didn’t I? Or is that justified because it was for you?” His voice finally cracks. “How do you think I feel about that, that I’ve killed people and now I’m in prison? It’s like waking up in a nightmare, a...one of those futures you know might happen but you wish it won’t. God...”

He pauses to catch his breath, feeling the hopelessness of his situation slowly sink in. “I...I don’t feel guilty, about any of that, well most of it. But...it’s not like I haven’t thought about it- what if I was in here. There are men, Sherlock, men who have done less, or nothing at all, who are stuck rotting in here while I’ve done more and yet I’m free. Or I think I’m free. I don’t fucking know anymore!”

A silence descends, the thick, deafening silence that appears after noise disperses, leaving only the slightest buzz of static within the ears. John closes his eyes, his throat tightening hard as he fights to calm himself, his heart palpitating wildly, kicking and throwing itself against his ribcage hard. Snapping like this only leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue and he can feel the soft apology forming, the word on his lips. _It’s not Sherlock’s fault after all-_

“If you felt that way, the why did you agree to come?”

It takes John a moment to process the frigid words, the aloof frostiness of Sherlock finally cutting him deep.

 _What?_

His hand drops from Sherlock’s shirt, or rather, Sherlock wrenches it away, his sharp stare coolly awaiting an answer he knows John can’t give. What can he say?

 _Why did I come?_

Because of Sherlock?

It’s always because of Sherlock. Sherlock is now the reason he does anything anymore, even without realising it. Food shopping- So Sherlock will eat. Cleaning the kitchen- So Sherlock doesn’t catch something from whatever bacterial growth he’s observing. Accompanying Sherlock on a case- So Sherlock doesn’t get himself killed.

It’s no realisation. Somehow, John already knows this and has come to accept it. But why? Why does he do it? Why did he come now?

 _I don’t know._

 _God why don’t I know?_

He knows. He does. He’s just unwilling to admit it, to acknowledge it. Because if he does, then he knows he is truly fucked.

 _Because I think I love you._

The thought hits him like a ton of bricks, like falling from a precipice, like being shot all over again in Afghanistan. Hot and painful and beyond his power to stop.

John blinks at Sherlock, his mind blank, a buzzing canvas of static and he realises vaguely that Sherlock is actually awaiting an answer. He opens his mouth to say something, anything-

 _Say something! Quick! Anything!_

“I...I don’t know.”

 _Not that!_

Sherlock pulls back, his face twisting in a nasty smirk, his eyes without mirth though. They’re dark and expressionless and what John doesn’t realise, is that he cannot read it because he’s never seen it on Sherlock before.

It’s hurt.

“No surprise there.” Sherlock sniffs.

John opens his mouth to retort, feeling the hot rush of indignation build, the need to protect and defend his intelligence and integrity. Instead however, he doesn’t. He can’t find the energy to.

For once in his life, John Watson gives up.

“I’m done,” he says, his voice bland, dead almost. And he throws his hands up in defeat and walks away.

****


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the case unravels into something worrisome.

Thought is unsurprisingly absent as John walks aimlessly from their cell. He doesn’t stroll, nor does he stride angrily. The preliminary formation of thought in his mind, the creation of idea, blurs. The lack of description and depth merely reflects what he feels at the moment, a blank canvas of brilliant white. Sickly, plain white.

White noise.

To put it simply, and John considers this briefly as he doggedly ignores the questioning look from a haggard guard, he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. Or where he’s going. Or what he’s going to do next. Which shouldn’t come to any particular shock and he accepts this with bitter resignation.

Sherlock doesn’t come after him, doesn’t call for him, and John isn’t surprised. Why would he be? Being surprised meant John truly believed Sherlock had a shred of humanity within him. And despite John believing such a thing, nursing his broken pride and embarrassingly, his bleeding heart, he could see all chances of Sherlock possessing anything akin to kindness slinking away like bleach poured down a drain. Sherlock is rather like the lethal liquid, he thinks vaguely. Venomous and deadly when consumed.

 _Not your best metaphor really. Sherlock’s rather like a drug instead. Addictive._

 _Now that’s just cliché._

John ignores the sudden thought, the small argumentative voice begging for a fight as he stuffs it away in the back of his mind, dismissing it with a weary _fuck off_. His body suddenly feels heavier and with each step he drags, he can feel the exhaustion clambering onto his back.

Saying he was done with this, with Sherlock, is a kamikaze. A self destruction button John created the moment he decided to stand beside the other man, the moment he chose to follow Sherlock. The moment, he realises with a saddened sense of clarity, he began to _trust_ Sherlock. Their argument has cracked something in the both of them, John could feel it, see it in the mirrors that were Sherlock’s eyes, and such a blow to the other man stirred a disgustingly, copious amount of joy within John. A sardonic, acrid sense of joy he found he only felt when bitter, when down-trodden. And some part of John felt that he had the right to feel the way he did.

The way he does now, drifting quietly through the halls.

But it doesn’t stop the throbbing though, the dull ache smarting somewhere inside. Just under his ribcage. It feels swollen, like a lump in his throat. Only the soft sensation of discomfort from swallowing around the ball set on choking him is intensified, rolled and left in his chest. And with every dull throb, John wants to curl in on himself.

It’s nothing new and has happened many times before, this blunt sensation of established pain. It’s discomforting rather than aching but the memory of how it formed is so tender, so raw, he can’t call it anything other than painful. It is the sort of pain one feels when lying numbly on a bed, realising belatedly, past the tears everyone sheds, the choked little cries as they sit without a thought, that someone they loved has died. It’s the sort of dull, disconcerting throb they feel when their heart breaks. It doesn’t rip, nor does it curl in on itself as if stabbed. No, it thumps harder and louder, closer to home, and that sensation in itself is the pain.

John thinks that this may be disappointment.

The halls are strangely quiet, which is nothing short of perturbing. John doesn’t quite know whether to bother worrying about it or to continue down the path of angst he seems to be eyeing with sudden interest. He doesn’t know what the time is, if he’s even allowed to be roaming around like this but the guards say nothing, gazing at him sharply as if they somehow _know_ what happened.

That or John’s become so paranoid he doesn’t know what to believe any more.

 _Oh for God’s sake! Chalk it up! You’ve been through worse._

 _Oh yeah? Like what_ , he thinks with petulant reprisal. Self pity looked so tantalising at the moment, he couldn’t understand why some people said avoiding it was the answer to life’s little problems.

He comes to the stairs, looking past the suspicious glare from two other inmates and steps down them, counting to himself slowly. It calms him down, it always does. The pattern and familiarity of the consecutive numbers, something he knows will never change, has always been held high in his eyes. _One, two, three-_

He counted sheep to get to sleep.

He counted seconds to wait.

He counted steps when nervous.

Perhaps it was a twitch, a sort of mental reflex to ground himself. John doesn’t know, he tries not to dwell too much on the explanations right now, content in knowing he’s finally calming down. Relaxing somewhat from the turmoil earlier.

John doesn’t think it’ll last long, but the thought that it’s there is comforting. Even if only a slight.

As he steps off the last step, thirteen ringing faintly in his mind, he fails to hear the gruff call from behind him.

“Oi!”

John frowns slightly, pausing before a large hand grabs his shoulder. Thick fingers sink into his shirt before he has the time to twist out of the grasp and seize the hand. Instead he does what he can and stiffens, gaze hardening, hands curling into fists. _Just in case._

“You Watson?”

A man comes to view, scruffy, sleepy eyes hanging heavy as he stares hard at John. He’s not that much taller, thank god, so if it came down to it, John knows with reassurance he’d probably be able to take him.

“Hey.” The man gives John’s shoulder a quick shake. “Are you John Watson?”

 _Unfortunately._

John frowns, ignoring the thought. “Who’s asking?”

He doesn’t quite know what to expect in answer. He isn’t sure if anyone should be asking for him considering he made it a point not to talk to anyone. Stan is an exception though, although John doesn’t know why. He hasn’t seen the man around in a while.

There is only one last possible reason, one John finds himself at wars with.

 _Sherlock._

Which promptly and calmly spurs the thought- _what the bloody hell has he done now?_

John’s breath catches in his throat.

The man before him tightens his hand once before letting go, his bushy brows furrowing in a stoic frown. “Man with the umbrella.”

John blinks.

 _Man with the umbrella-_

 _Oh for-_

The man cocks his head, nudging it slightly to the side in a gesture for John to follow. “Come with me.”

And despite knowing he shouldn’t, that he doesn’t, in fact, like Mycroft, that it’s Mycroft’s bloody fault he’s stuck here and that Sherlock is such a bastard ( _No that’s Sherlock’s fault_ ), John follows anyway.

 _Because_ , he asks himself sadly, _what else do I do?_

****

“If you can give me one reason,” John spits into the phone clutched tightly in his hand. “Why I shouldn’t hang up right now, I might consider listening to whatever stupid, Holmesian _crap_ you’ll come out with.”

 _Holmesian. Good one._

“And a hello to you to John,” Mycroft greets calmly. “I’d ask how you were but it’d be a wasted effort wouldn’t it?”

John hangs up.

Behind him the man who led him to the phones tuts disapprovingly.

“Oh fuck off,” John snarls, glaring at the worn phone on the hook. The calling area is surprisingly empty and John doesn’t know why. He wants to ask, feeling uneasy but bites his tongue. The guards seem less than friendly today, narrowing their eyes at anyone passing by, daring them almost to step forward as their fingers clench around their batons. John isn’t a masochist and he knows better than to approach one on a bad day. He’s seen what happens when an inmate cocks up and catches a guard bordering on frustration. And it’s not a pretty sight.

John glares at the phone as it starts ringing again, ignoring the pointed stare from the man behind him before finally answering.

“I see things could be better then?” Mycroft hums in disappointment.

John deadpans. “What gave you that idea?” He can hear Mycroft’s smile and grits his teeth, fists tightening on the phone. His patience, or whatever is left of it, is thinning rapidly. “You didn’t give me that reason.”

“Ah yes, of course. Well John, other than to find out how you are, I am actually calling on a matter of importance.”

John raises an eyebrow and casts a quick glance around, wary. “Importance? Good importance I hope?”

There’s a faint clicking sound and John realises slowly that it’s Mycroft’s tongue. “We can only hope...” he murmurs quietly, distant as John’s presence disperses for a moment. “Unfortunately it’s of another importance. One slightly less... _good_.”

 _Oh great. Just great. What now?_

John’s brows pull into a slight frown. “Why, what’s happened?”

Mycroft is silent for a moment and John doesn’t know if he should be worried or not. “Tell me John,” he finally begins, his voice even. “Do you know where Sherlock is now?”

 _Sherlock?_

He blinks. _Sherlock._

“I don’t know,” John mutters grimly. “In the cell probably.” He doesn’t actually know, which isn’t anything new, in all honesty. It’s not, by far, the first time they’ve parted ways.

“Ah.”

“Ah? Why ah? What does ah mean?” John’s knuckles whiten around the phone as he grits this out, his heart sinking with a hideous _thud_ , to the bottom of his gut.

There’s a slight rustle on the phone in reply and in the distance, John can almost hear the tapping of a key board. Mycroft finally clears his throat softly. “Take it as read John, things are not as what they seem at the moment.”

 _No more riddles, Mycroft. Please._

“What do you mean?” John almost regrets the words.

“There’s been a development.”

 _Oh god_ , John thinks despondently. _That can’t be good._

He swallows hard. “What’s happened?” And clutches the phone just that bit tighter.

There’s a brief moment of silence, aching and throbbing between them as John’s heart palpitates with force inside him. He doesn’t know what to expect, which is both unsurprising and unsettling. Finally Mycroft speaks and John has to fight to try and focus on the words, not the steely, discomforting underline through Mycroft’s voice.

“Samuel Thompson was found dead yesterday at his home.”

John doesn’t breathe as he processes this. “Wait-” he starts, frowning. “Dead? As in what?... Murder?”

Mycroft hums slightly. “No, suicide.”

“Suicide?” John repeats incredulously. “How do you know this?” It’s a stupid question he knows, but there is only so much John can take in before things get a little muddled.

“Because I was the one who found him.”

 _Ah._

John doesn’t quite know what to say, if an apology is in order or if this was just a statement on Mycroft’s part. The man hadn’t sounded too shaken so perhaps he was alright. Which was certainly a feat. John knew how damaging it was finding someone in such a position; he would be lying if he said some of the cases he and Sherlock went on didn’t keep awake at night.

He realises belatedly that Mycroft is still talking.

“Sorry what?”

Mycroft sighs heavily. “Please pay attention John. This is serious. I decided to pay a visit to Thompson’s home yesterday and it was there he was found. An overdose on methamphetamine-”

“Wait methamphe- that’s Crystal Meth isn’t it?”

“Johnson was imprisoned on a minor drug charge. As you can see the drug was quite easy to acquire for Thompson, what with their combined contacts. The toxicology reports said they found copious amounts in his system. Most likely taken in a short amount of time.”

“And it was a definite suicide? Why would he kill himself?”

Mycroft pauses and John briefly wonders if he should be worried. “The police are ruling it as suicide.”

The police-

John sighs heavily, feeling his heart sink. “Its murder isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately.”

 _Unfortunately. God everything’s unfortunate all of a sudden._

He closes his eyes, rubbing over them tiredly as he feels exhaustion begin to chip at his bones. The mental exhaustion seems to weigh out the physical but it makes things even worse. It means that John can’t switch off, won’t be able to. The majority of his mind wanders toward Sherlock, thinks about him, what he was doing, if he’s ok, if he feels, with any shred of his being, anything toward John. If he knew of John’s feelings. In succession, the rest of John’s mind occupies itself with keeping them alive.

At this very moment, standing there clutching a worn, dirty phone to his ear which has probably been pressed to the ears of god knows what, the lowest of men, John can’t help but feel very, very tired.

And very, very sad.

“Why are you telling me this Mycroft? Could you not just get Sherlock?” he breathes wearily, resisting the urge to butt his forehead against the concrete pillar the phone was fixed onto.

“There’s only so much I can do John,” Mycroft replies shortly. “Obtaining Sherlock’s presence is not as easy as you would think. I need you to find him.”

“Why?” _Why though? Why me? Why do I have to run around him like a hapless dog? Why do these things happen to me? Why can’t I just say no?_

“John.” Mycroft’s voice wavers slightly as it lowers. “You’re not listening. Thompson is now dead. A premeditated murder. Someone killed him. I’m sure there are many others who would want to but there are only two, I can think of with any sure peace of mind, who would do so in the attempt to gain anything out of it. And those two are where?”

John frowns. Two? But he can only think of-

Johnson and Aldan _(Or Thompson)._. But they’re...no. No they’re all in it together aren’t they? They wouldn’t...

John licks his lips. “They’re in...”

 _Prison._

They’re here. With him. In prison. While Mr Samuel Thompson was swanning around outside, his fingers in all the pies. It most definitely constituted as a legitimate reason to kill him.

But how would they do it?

Someone else would have to have done it for them. But why now? _Why would they kill him? What could they possibly gain from it?_

 _Revenge? No that can’t be it._

 _Drugs? The Crystal Meth thing. There’s big money-_

 _Money._

John freezes, blinking as a sudden memory flashes through his mind. Why are they here? _To catch Thompson out- he was embezzling money._

The phone feels hot against his ear as John sinks against the wall, his eyes slamming shut. _Fuck it all_ , he thinks sadly. Images flash in his mind, perceived ideas of how Thompson was found, a dead weight against the floor, Johnson and Aldan plotting together, him and Sherlock screaming at each other.

The sudden thought of Sherlock sparks a momentary feeling of resignation within him. Sherlock black and blue, nursing his wounds bitterly.

And if Sherlock did rock the boat, where was he now?

Mycroft hums gently, a noncommittal noise as the penny drops. John swallows hard past his heart, which had jumped in his throat. He rubs the ball of his palm against them, pressing on them tightly as he sees flashing blotches of light spark behind his throbbing retinas.

“You must go to Sherlock now,” Mycroft urges softly. “He’s already injured enough without more-”

John’s head snaps up. “You know about that?”

Mycroft makes a small noise, a short laugh if John bothers to listen close enough. “There’s a lot I know John.” And it sends a shiver through him, the hairs on the back of John’s neck bristling.

“Don’t I know it,” he mumbles, rubbing his lips with a rough palm. “Do you know where Sherlock is now?” He tries to still himself, to calm his thrumming nerves but he can’t help but fidget. He’s nervous, a ball of anxiety building and throbbing deep within him and he wants to run as fast as possible to the other man, to Sherlock. John wants to grab him and pull him away, to hide him somewhere only John knows, somewhere he knows Sherlock will be safe forever.

His palms are clammy, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin as he waits for Mycroft’s answer. There is a faint clicking, the quiet sound of fingers flying over a keyboard before the man finally returns, as calm and omniscient as ever.

“The canteen.”

And for the second time that day, John hangs up, trying hard not to watch rivets of his sweat streak down the phone as if it was melting.

****


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Watson sees red and a chair is broken.

He runs. Or to the more observant eye, he walks very, very fast.

Surprisingly enough though, no one seems to be paying the least bit of attention toward him, which is certainly a positive sign, if nothing else. The guards shoot him disapproving looks as he paces by, but say nothing, ignoring him in favour of mindless chitchat with each other. John wonders vaguely if Mycroft paid them off, and needless to say, the idea doesn’t surprise him one bit.

He can’t help worrying about Sherlock though. His mind is a blanket of panic, alarm pausing his mind and honing his senses. His mind is a blank white canvas, nothing but Sherlock pinned to it, but his body thrums with energy, with adrenaline threatening to spill forth in waves. He thinks about Sherlock, what the man has gotten himself into. Things have obviously escalated but John can’t quite determine to what extent. He can’t think of anything coherent and useful past _Sherlock._

 _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

Whether the man is hurt, if he’s caught somewhere-

John breaks out into a light sprint as his fingers twitch, sense memory forcing his index finger to convulse nervously, a trigger finger. Aching for something, to hold Sherlock, to seize the scruff of the man’s neck and drag him somewhere safe and quiet and alone with just him. A bubble so Sherlock can be safe forever and ever.

John knows, acknowledging the thought rather despondently, just what Sherlock’s reaction would be to such an idea, but it doesn’t stop him considering it with the utmost sincerity. This urge to shield Sherlock, despite the fact that the man is in his bloody thirties and is beyond protecting, doesn’t fade with time. On the contrary, it seems to grow with each passing day, with each case and each cut John sews up in their kitchen. Sherlock wears his scars as if they were nothing, trifle nuisances that that occur in times of inconvenience but John never sees it like that. To him they signify that fact that Sherlock is damageable. He is so human- so breakable. Sherlock isn’t made of glass, nor marble. He isn’t chiselled perfection, an artist’s muse- he is a man. He breathes, cries, pisses and cuts like every other person. There is blood in his veins and breath in his lungs and as long as that stands, John knows he will be behind him, following, protecting every step of the way.

And as he runs, shouldering past groups of sweaty, filthy criminals, thugs and thieves and murderers, he pushes everything he ever felt toward Sherlock during these past couple of days- all the anger and frustration he felt in their cell, the hurt after their argument, the lust he feels thrumming in his veins- away until there is nothing left to think of apart from Sherlock.

 _Just Sherlock._

Because this need to protect him, to save this _bloody idiot of a genius,_ dawns on John with such clarity, he can’t help but laugh, lamenting on all the lost time he spend agonising over all the stupid anger he felt. Could he expect anything else from the man? No. No he couldn’t have. This was just like him.

One of these days, if Sherlock doesn’t kill both of them now, John thinks maybe his heart will give out. Finally choke itself in a self serving bid to grant John Watson some mercy from life. And the thought is suitably hilarious because after everything they’ve been through, pulling silly, taunting faces at death, dying of a heart attack must be the most bitterly ironic thing John can think of. He knows it make Sherlock laugh- and suddenly it’d all seem worth it then.

 _Sherlock you bloody idiot._

“Oi!”

A hand lands on his shoulder, gripping his shirt tight and he is hauled back and spun around. Stan grins at him, open and toothy and John doesn’t know whether to sigh in relief or punch the man.

“Alright Johnny boy?”

 _Johnny boy-?_

He doesn’t think too hard on it though, looking around quickly, his thoughts amok, his heart thumping painfully fast in his throat. “Stan mate,” John starts. “Look I’m in a rush here-”

“Why, where you got to get to so badly?”

“Sherlock!” Christ, if he doesn’t explode now, he doesn’t know what will happen. “I need to find Sherlock now.”

Stan frowns and releases his grip. “Sherlock? Who the fuck is Sherlock- Oh! That toff you’re always with-”

“Yes that toff- No, wait he’s not a toff...that much. Look it doesn’t matter- I need to find him.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah alright, sure thing mate. I think I saw him in the canteen.”

 _I already knew that!_

John doesn’t pause though, turning and heading straight for the canteen, Stan in tow. He doesn’t care, can’t think of anything except Sherlock. It was become this fevered mantra, closing with vice like viciousness around his lungs and heart, every painful, aching beat choking on Sherlock’s name. By now, John assumes with a vague assertion that perhaps the constant exposure to danger would either inure them both to the sensation, or they would eventually, rather inevitably, tire from it. He knew now, however, that it was rather wishful thinking on his part, that small, domestic part of John that wanted nothing more than to curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea, holding out for a shred of a chance.

It isn’t going to happen though. Neither Sherlock nor John will let it.

Which is why when he steps across the threshold into the canteen, ears sparking at the faint drone of chatter, eyes scanning the vicinity swiftly, that hum of adrenaline buzzes wildly in his veins, thrumming, aching for revival and life. John knows then, Christ he knows with every fibre of his being that he was put on this earth, not to follow the tedium of repetition, of routine, but to fight.

John doesn’t believe in destiny, or the idea of fate. But he knows, somehow, something had put him on this earth for Sherlock, coincidence, god, maybe even karma, but something wanted him by the man’s side.

So it’s only natural, an instinct even, honed and sharpened, that when he finally sees Sherlock, black and blue and a thin trail of blood crawling from his temple, he sees red.

Sherlock is almost standoffish, frigid as he stares down at the self made razor pointed at his throat, the short, stout frame of Johnson clutching it angrily. Johnson is shouting, spittle flying from his thin, white lips as the men surrounding Sherlock move in, grinning, eager for a fight. John can’t hear though, he can’t hear anything past the rush in his ears, the blood pumping with such velocity it is dizzying. He can see though, and he watches, frozen to the spot, when Sherlock speaks, his eyes flashing dangerously, so much so that it tips Johnson over the edge, the man’s fat, porky face livid as he plunges the razor straight into Sherlock’s shoulder.

Someone shouts, a ragged, hoarse cry and John only vaguely registers it, pinning it to the back of his mind for further deliberation before he realises it’s Johnson shouting, crying out as John seizes the nearest chair and slams it hard against the man’s back. They both crumple to the floor and John can’t think, can’t even breathe as he clutches the man’s collar and slams his fist into his jaw.

There are yells around them, chants of more, demanding a fight and it feels like fire, like being burned alive. Nothing like Afghanistan, this was more, so much different. He isn’t scared here, doesn’t fear a thing when his fist crunches into mandible, skin scarping against the man’s teeth. Anger courses through him like heroin, dizzying, addictive and he wants to _kill_ this man, wants to rip every bone from his body one by one for hurting Sherlock-

 _Sherlock._

 _Oh god Sherlock._

John tears himself away, sickeningly pleased as he watches Johnson turn on his side, choking on his blood and teeth, and turns to find the other man.

It’s chaos, sheer bloody chaos. It appears that John gave the rest of the prison an excuse to riot, and although he’s a little surprised with the speed in which the opportunity invited itself on, he’s grateful for the distraction- it is almost cathartic.

He spots Sherlock, his hand stained red as he clutches at his shoulder, staring fervently at John, John Watson with his throbbing knuckles, sliced on Johnson’s teeth, his heart threatening to implode in his chest, burst free of its confines and bury itself within between Sherlock’s lungs.

Sherlock’s eyes are sparkling as he watches at him, so distant and calm as if amidst this anarchy, this pure and concentrated disarray, Sherlock Holmes is the only point of control. The man who’s mind implodes on itself in such boredom, who thrives on such chaos. The irony was beautiful, was gorgeous. John wanted to kiss it, to climb straight into its lap and ride it into oblivion.

But Sherlock, Christ is he beautiful standing there, so openly in awe as he gazes at John, the screaming of men around them nothing but a mere trifle.

Moments like these come rarely, and are what John searches for, lives for. Moments of pure and utter clarity. And this is one of those moments, the simplicity of what was between them so openly real it was hilarious.

 _I love him._

 _God help me, I love him._

John steps forward, walking to the man, ignoring the prisoners scuffling around them, the melodious tinkling of glass shattering, the shouts of prison guards. He ignores the throb in his hand, the dull twinge in his knuckles and the scraping of chairs against floors.

And as he strides to Sherlock, hoping indistinctly to sweep the man out of here forever and to gather him tight in his arms, like the soppy romantic he is, John fails to register the dawning panic in the detective’s pale eyes, the startled admission as something rather hard and rather painful slams into the back of his skull.

John crashes to the floor, his knees crumpling, his skull throbbing as all fades to black and his last thought rings softly in faint alarm.

 _Sherlock._

****

His head feels foggy, stuffy almost as if someone had opened it while he was asleep and replaced the contents with cotton wool. John blinks, eyes sticky with sleep, trying to brush away the cobwebs of slumber clinging to his mind and remember just where exactly he was.

Or how he got there.

Or why his head was thumping all of a sudden.

 _God that hurts._

He winces and opens his eyes fully, blinking owlishly at the yellowing ceiling, a grey watermark waving at him and he thinks hazily- _that can’t be right._

And it’s not right. Not with his recollection, with piecing together the fuzzy snippets of his broken memory. He isn’t in his cell; that much he knows.

 _So where-_

He smells it before realisation dawns. The slight tang of bleach, chlorine to be precise. The fluorescent, overhead lights, the scent of disinfectant, to tightness of the bandage _(how on earth did that get there?)_ around his knuckles.

A hospital? No, no it can’t be a hospital-

The medical ward then.

He sits up on the makeshift cot, befuddled to say the least and blinks around him, a few inmates scattered in beds beside him. No one has noticed that he’s awake; it is busy enough without John’s bemusement adding to the situation. His only concern, for the moment, is finding out how he actually got there.

John touches the back of his skull with his bandaged hand, feeling warily for the golf sized lump, his Achilles heel for the moment. Someone had hit him, and hard, he amends as his skull throbs. God that must have been once punch-

 _No. No that’s wrong._

No not a punch. Something else. Something bigger, heavier-

 _A chair._

The memory dawns with a slow, painful transparency that turns John’s stomach to water, the blood rushing to his head momentarily. His vision blurs, dark, flashing spots exploding behind his retinas as the memory crawls to him with a vengeance. His temples throb, eyes stinging as he remembers the way Johnson’s jaw crunched under his fist, the way the man’s eyes bulged obscenely beneath the rolls of his fat cheeks.

His heart throbs at the thought of Sherlock, the soft, awed glint in the man’s eyes, the red stain of his hand as he clutched at his shoulder-

 _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!_

 _Where the bloody hell is Sherlock?_

 _You lost him again!_

“Oi!”

John pauses, the inward roll of panic hesitating and rearing its head as the voice floated by his ears. He turns, frowning as he searches for the agitated whisper. Heading toward him, head ducked low to cover his face, is Stan, his brows pinched as he crouches low beside John’s bed, hidden from view almost by the shadow of a filing cabinet beside the man.

“Jesus Christ!” John exclaimed softly, eyes widening as he finally got a good look at the man. “What happened to you?”

Stan, to say the least, looks a little worse for wear. His eye is swollen, a deep gash searing from his temple down to his cheek, patched awkwardly with a few butterfly stitches. He is almost purple with bruises, and when he grins, John can just about see the gap where a tooth once was.

“You don’t remember?” Stan whispers in surprise. “Nah, ‘course you wouldn’t- fella knocked you out like a light, he did. Took a chair right to the back of your head you did.”

John snorts. “Yeah I remember.”

Stan grins wolfishly. “Some riot. They locked us up for two days after, only got an hour free time.”

 _Two days-_

 _Wait. What?_

“Excuse me?” John blinks at him, feeling his blood turn to ice. “How long have I been out?”

“Three days mate. Like I said, that was some hit. Playing dirty if you ask me but-”

“Three days?!” Three days? He was out for three days? Three solid days? No. No that can’t be right. And what about Sherlock?

 _Bugger._

“Stan, Stan mate listen-” John leans forward, whispering lowly, his hand trembling softly as he fists his trouser leg, fingers cracking as they curl in on themselves. He needs to know what happened to Sherlock though. He just needs to. “What happened to Sherlock? That guy I was looking for, remember?”

Stan’s eyes flashed. “That’s exactly why I’m here. I’m not actually supposed to be but I thought you should know. That guy you went for, the fat one-”

“Yeah I remember.” His patience is thinning rapidly, barely on a thread.

“Well guess what? He’s dead!”

John blanches, recoiling at this new piece of information. _Dead? Christ, he was dead?_

Wait- No.

No. No John didn’t kill him. He didn’t.

 _Did you?_

“What?” He asks weakly, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. Stan nods, his eyes flickering toward the door, lest he be seen.

He swipes his lips nervously. “Yeah they found him out back in the gardens.” He makes a vague, scratchy noise, rumbling deep as he swipes a finger clean across his throat. “Bloody messy it was. Done with a razor.”

 _Oh thank god! I didn’t kill him!_

“After he’d hit you with that chair, he ran off. Of course things got a bit hectic, you know.” Stan fiddles with his thumbs, nervously eyeing the door. “Guards started rushing in, beating everyone. Next thing I know, we’re all banged up and you’re brought ‘ere.”

 _Sherlock! What happened to Sherlock?_

“What about Sherlock though?”

Stan licks his lips quickly. “Yeah...uh...” He blinks at John before looking away. John realises at that moment that it’s not good. Not good at all. His hand trembles violently and he can feel the soft twinges of discomfort in his leg, the ache in his thigh bone deep. This can’t be good. Oh bloody fuck.

“Stan.” It’s desperate, he’s pleading now, beyond toying with things. He needs to know and he needs to know now. And Stan sees this, his gaze uncharacteristically soft, awkward for barely a moment before he peels it away, staring at a point somewhere past John.

“He’s gone mate,” He finally mutters, wiping a hand across his lips. “They moved him.”

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right bear with me on this. I am working on the next part as we speak. :D Hope you're enjoying it and comments would be lovely because well really, they make us writers very, very happy indeed. <3


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